


The Ace Thing

by NoBrandHero



Series: Things That Complicate Shit [1]
Category: Homestuck
Genre: Age Difference, Aged-Up Character(s), Alternate Universe - No Sburb Session, Asexual Character, Asexuality, Casual drinking, Celibacy, Family Angst, Fluff and Angst, M/M, Meeting the Parents, Sloppy Makeouts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-04
Updated: 2014-09-01
Packaged: 2018-02-03 10:04:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 14
Words: 29,000
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1740665
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NoBrandHero/pseuds/NoBrandHero
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The worst part isn't that he's fifteen years younger than you, or that he's a sex-repulsed asexual, or even that he's your little bro's best friend. No, the worst part is, despite this list of reasons why he's a completely unsuitable and incompatible romantic partner for you, you're still planning to pursue John Egbert like a complete dumbass. At least he's legal.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I accidentally made two of my friends ship Brojohn, so I feel like I owe them a fic or something, especially since the rec I sent them stopped updating. So yeah, let's write some Brojohn. I've also been looking for an opportunity to write asexual!John, so that's happening too.

You first learn about the existence of John Egbert when your thirteen-year-old brother announces that his Internet friend is staying in your apartment for the next week. You grunt in reply, not really paying attention as you splice and edit the footage for your newest film. "What're you telling me for?"

Dave crosses his arms and leans against your desk, trying and failing to demand your attention. "We gotta talk before he gets here."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah. While he's visiting, don't leave your puppets lying goddamn everywhere."

You finally look away from your monitor and fix him with your most unimpressed stare. "Why the fuck?"

"He thinks they're lame." He shrugs. "Yeah, I know, he's a dork; cut him some slack and pretend we give a shit about class for a week." He straightens, then hesitates. "Also, don't fucking attack him if he gets up for the bathroom in the middle of the night." He's halfway to the door before he stops again. "Actually, just plain don't attack him."

You shake your head once he's left the room. Your little bro really needs some cooler friends.

You mostly forget about your upcoming visitor until someone knocks at the door late the next morning. As soon as Dave answers, a scrawny little brown kid tackles him in a tight but awkward hug. Dave pats him on the back and tries to coolly detangle himself but his friend's grip holds tight.

"Hey Egbert," Dave says. "I see you're checking to make sure I am in fact a physical being and not a projected hologram. Bad news is, you still don't know if I'm real or if we improved holograms a metric fuckton when you turned your back. I might be a message from Princess Leia. Help me, Obi-Wan, I'm getting the life squeezed out of me."

Dave's friend snickers and gives him a light shove as they break apart. "Oh my god, you fucking ramble even in person."

"Ramble? Dude, I grace you with the privilege of hearing my mad ironic speeches and you say I _ramble_?"

You stop flashstepping long enough to cross your arms and lean a shoulder against the wall as you watch them. "Sounds like he's got you pegged to me, bro."

Your unexpected guest starts a little when he catches sight of you. "Hey. You're Dave's big brother, right? I'm John." His front teeth are atrociously oversized in his small mouth as he grins up at you.

You just give him your usual nod.

He has a worn out Ghostbusters backpack and a T-shirt that would match if it wasn't a Japanese rip-off. His glasses are thick rectangles, making his blue eyes bug out. He has messy black hair and he's a tiny thing in both width and height, but he's not the starved kind of skinny, more the "has too much energy and a fast metabolism because he's a fucking thirteen-year-old boy" kind of skinny. His arms make Dave's lean muscles look like a bodybuilder's by comparison.

You're not sure what his ethnicity is. Presumably there's a little European in him with a name like "Egbert," but otherwise he looks like his heritage could come from any combination of Asian countries. Maybe a little Korean, some Pakistani, a quarter Filipino... or maybe you're a completely off-base racist fuck and he's one hundred percent Cuban. In the end, the important thing is, you don't care.

He waits a few seconds as if expecting you to say something, then falters. "Uh, thanks for letting me stay here and shit."

You shrug. "Yeah, go wild. Just don't do anything that'll get the cops called." You head for the futon for some quality ironic TV and leave them to whatever dumb shit brats do to keep themselves occupied this generation.

To your chagrin, that dumb shit involves snooping around your apartment. Once John's belongings are stored in Dave's room, they're back in the living room being noisy shitheads as Dave pretends to be a fancyass tour guide.

"And through that door is the infamous Strider kitchen, where many an unsuspecting porno was shot," Dave says, waving his arm in the kitchen's direction. "Ladies and gentlemen, may I remind you once again to keep your limbs inside the goddamn ride whenever you open the fridge or I can't held be responsible if you fuck shit up?"

John snorts. "Dude, shut up. I get it."

"And over yonder is the bathroom for all your friendly urine, shit, vomit, and bright green diarrhea-related needs."

" _Gross_ , bro!"

John's awed by your movie collection when they get to examining the shelves, but you don't think he appreciates it for its proper ironic glory. Actually, he seems to genuinely _like_ most of that shit. You almost worry Dave might bully the poor brat, as easy of a target as he is, but it turns out John is a blunt little fucker who can stand up for himself just fine.

John leans over the back of the futon, narrowing his eyes at the TV. "Why are you watching My Little Pony?"

You glance at him without turning your head. "I am studying the latest generation of fine equine art, as any true scholar of irony would."

He laughs. "That's stupid."

"Why? Because it's for girls?" you say, just waiting for him to bite at the bait so you can tear down his sexist ass.

"No," he says. "Because it's predictable as shit. I've never seen this episode before, but I can tell you already that those little puffballs are going to turn out to be bad and the pink horse is trying to stop them, but she won't explain herself so her friends assume she's out of her mind."

Your mouth twitches but you refuse to frown. That is _exactly_ the direction this episode heads and you're pretty sure he's not lying about not seeing it before. Well, you only watch the non-Rainbow Dash-focused episodes ironically anyway -- as far as anyone else knows, even the Rainbow Dash episodes are enjoyed ironically.

Dave catches John's shoulder and leads him back towards his room. "That's just part of the irony, dude. You'd never get it," he says, as if he's old enough to get it.

After a couple days, you find you mostly don't like John. He's loud and all emotion and his taste is absolute shit. He also has a habit of laughing at anything cool you do when he's around, the little brat. But as much as he and Dave trade insults and jabs, they seem to actually enjoy each other's company, so you just leave them to it and only come out of your work room when they're asleep or to feed them.

Your apartment has been an obstacle course since the day you moved in, but you've always been the sole crafter of said obstacles. Lately there's not a door left open a crack without a bucket sitting at the top, nor a soda bottle unshaken. More than once, John's popped out from behind furniture to try tossing a pie your direction that you swiftly slice in two. (You have no idea where the hell he gets the damn things. Point to him on that.) These pranks are so weak that even Dave can avoid them; they might as well be a non-issue to you. They're still annoying.

You wake early one morning to find every cup in the apartment sitting upright on the floor less than a foot apart, filled to the brim with water. For a flashstep master such as yourself, it's barely an effort to zip through the mess, but you don't like being provoked. You snatch two of the nearest cups and flashstep to Dave's room without spilling a drop.

Both boys are curled on the floor on top of sleeping bags, sound asleep. You dump a glass of water over each of their heads and flashstep out again before either can let out an indignant squawk, let alone spot their tormentor.

The next time you see him, John gives you a nod, his eyes lit with new-found respect. You don't return it.

After he leaves, you don't see John again for the next five years. You still spot the kid's blue text on Dave's computer screen often enough, so you know they're still friends, but he's out of your hair and mostly out of your mind save for the rare occasions that Dave asks you for plane fare to Washington.

Dave's half a month from starting his first semester at college -- he won't tell you what he's majoring in and you haven't asked anyway. He chose some local private school, expensive with a decent reputation, so he's not planning to move out just yet. You can afford to pay for student housing, but neither of you are keen on boxing up his shit any sooner than you have to. Besides, you both agree that supervised housing is no place for a Strider.

Like last time he brought his friend up to you directly, he waits until you're absorbed in work at the computer before he knocks at the doorframe and slips in to see you. "Hey, John's staying here for a week while he waits on his dorm to get its damn act together."

You're not really surprised John's chosen a school in Houston. You nod. "Starting when?"

"Today."

You still don't take your eyes off the monitor, not that he can see. "I gotta clean again?"

He shrugs. "Nah, place looks fine, just don't throw any smuppets around."

"No promises."

He flips you off and you return the gesture.

You do nothing to prepare for whenever the hell your newest moocher's gonna show up; he's Dave's guest anyway, so you give even fewer shits about going out of your way for him. Just your luck, though, there's a knock at the door when Dave's busy.

"Dave! Door!" you shout from the couch even though you just heard the bathroom door lock.

"Get it yourself, you lazy asshole!" comes the muffled answer. "I'm taking a shit!"

You roll your eyes but get to your feet all the same. He'll just owe you. He always regrets owing you.

You take your time getting to the door and throw it open. A young man stands before you, completely unrecognizable from the brat you met five years ago. If it weren't for the suitcase at his side, you'd assume the kid was lost.

He's taller than you expected -- not taller than you, but probably not more than an inch shorter than Dave -- and he's put some meat on his bones since you last saw him. His skin's lighter, as if he's taken to the indoors more and more over the years, but it's still a rich brown that complements his bright blue eyes.

He kind of looks like a young version of your old boyfriend, with a little less muscle and a sweeter face.

"Hi, Mr. Strider!" he says with a grin. Even his giant buckteeth have turned charming instead of awkward with age.

Oh, fuck you. He grew up hot.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hm, y'know what, I'm gonna go ahead and add a disclaimer for new readers because I know how worrying it can be to find a fic that tackles a sensitive subject like orientation when you don't know whether or not the author can handle it tastefully. So I'll try to (hopefully) alleviate a few fears early on with some minor spoilers.
> 
> Here is what you can expect from this fic in regards to how it will approach asexuality: First off, John and Dirk are not going to fuck. Ever. Dirk will not try to pressure John into having sex; John will not decide his partner's sexual wants are more important than his own repulsion. Also, while John is repulsed by anything involving the pants department, he isn't touch-repulsed and he does enjoy stuff like sloppy makeouts. I think that covers it? I hope that covers it.


	2. Chapter 2

You are the shallowest motherfucker. It is you. John is still expressive, childish, and the king of bad taste, but it just comes off as endearing now that he's legal.

When you wake the next morning to find your living room furniture has been rearranged to mirror their old positions, you're a little more impressed than you'd ever admit -- in part because you only got three hours of sleep, so his window of opportunity was pretty slim, but mostly because you sleep in the goddamn living room and he somehow moved the futon without waking you. All the same, you pretend you don't notice and refuse to give him the satisfaction of moving anything back.

Whereas you'd avoided Dave and his chum the last time they camped out in your apartment, this time you keep a near-constant eye on them whenever they're in a public space, studying John and evaluating just how willing you are to date someone a few months younger than Dave. You'd always thought your tastes leaned a little older, but there are exceptions to every rule.

Field results come back an unquestionable positive. You'd tap that.

By the third day of John's stay, your strategy changes from "observe from afar, flashstepping before anyone notices" to "grab John's attention." This mostly involves continuing to flashstep by them so fast that they don't even know you're in the same room, but with the addition of making your presence known the only way you know how.

You leave puppets around them, startling the hell out of John more than once while Dave's mouth just twitches into a frown. You swap out John's glass of water for a glass of grapefruit juice just as he reaches for it. You make it as clear as you can that if he wants to play pranks, you can best him.

After you pull a chair five feet back just as John's about to take a seat, Dave excuses himself and strolls to the kitchen.

"Bro!" he calls.

You flashstep in and lean back against the wall with your arms crossed. "What?"

He turns on you with a scowl, his poker face not holding up well under pressure. His shoulders are tense too. "Dude, thought we were cool on Egbert staying here."

"From where I'm standing, the only one who needs to chill here is you, li'l bro." You keep your tone completely even, your face unmoving aside from your lips as you speak, to serve as example, but Dave doesn't catch the hint.

"It's a little hard to keep chill when you keep harassing my friend for no goddamn reason like a freaking stalker ninja. Save it for when we got the place to ourselves again."

You shrug. "Don't know what's got your panties in a twist. I'm just giving him the usual Strider welcome."

Dave's brow furrows. "Strider welcome? I haven't seen you pull this kind of stupid bullshit since that Harley guy-" He freezes, his mouth hanging open mid-word. "Oh my god. You're crushing on John."

You give him your best "You got a problem with that?" look. You're fully prepared to shoot down any hysterics about to explode from your little bro.

For once in your life, Dave manages to surprise you. He bursts out laughing.

"Dave, do I need to drive you to a goddamn mental ward?" you say, trying not to tense or show any other signs that he's thrown you for a loop.

"Fuck." He calms his laughter with some effort. "You have fun with that, dude. Film your confession for me. I can't miss that shit."

You cock your head. "You trying to not-so-subtly hint that he's straight?" It wouldn't be the first time. "Is he even into men?" is kind of an occupational hazard of being gay as shit, second to "is this guy gonna turn out to be a giant bigot?"

"Nah, he's not straight," Dave says, still snickering. "Oh, Jesus. You'll see." He leaves you, still shaking his head, without further explanation. There's no way you're going to give him an advantage over you by pushing for more info, so you just let him go.

"What's so funny?" you hear John say in the other room.

"Oh, dude, it's the best shit. I'm never telling."

"C'mon, do it, you fucking tease."

"No way, man, I'm not ruining it when there's a chance you'll find out on your own. My lips are so sealed you'd need to hop over to Lowe's for a crowbar so you can pry open the shed where you keep the chainsaw and tear this tight secret out of me."

You roll your eyes at the exchange and make a point to swap out Dave's apple juice for lemon juice later. At least he's not mad you're wooing his friend, but you can't help feeling a little on edge. Your little bro is _never_ so confident about any humiliations coming your way. You leave them be for the afternoon, just spying on occasion. As far as you can tell, John hasn't even put it together that you were the one causing the mayhem around them earlier.

You share a room alone with John for the first time later that evening, when you're both stopping in the kitchen for drinks.

"Hey, Mr. Strider," John says as he passes you.

You fight down a shudder that anyone just called you "Mr. Strider," let alone _him_. Jesus Christ, no. "Dave treating you okay so far?"

"No, but I'm returning the favor, so it's all good." He opens the fridge, sidestepping to avoid the swords that come tumbling out. Kid's a fast learner. "We're watching a movie soon if you want in on it."

"If you need adult supervision, Egbert, you can just ask."

John snorts and pulls out a can of Coke. "Yeah, man, TV won't let us start the Blu-ray without someone over twenty present. If you don't come to our rescue, we're stuck watching Disney Channel again."

You shake your head. "Fuckin' tragic. I'll be there in five."

He holds both hands and his new soda over his heart as he backs towards the door. "You're a motherfucking lifesaver, Mr. Strider."

"And don't forget it." Why does he have to keep calling you that? Does it get any less cool than "mister"? Seeing as you're the master of cool, you're plenty qualified to vote no, there is no honorific lamer than "mister."

You don't wait the full five minutes, flashstepping out just as they're fumbling for remotes. You toss a red smuppet under John as he tries to take his seat. He catches sight of the brightly colored nose just as he starts to put his weight on it.

"Jesus fuck!" He bolts to the side, slamming into Dave's shoulder as he leans away from the plush.

Dave stays still as a statue as his friend practically climbs into his lap for safety -- his chillness _has_ improved over the years; he would have been panicking with John five years ago. "Dude, what."

John's face scrunches up in disgust. "I almost sat on one of those grossass puppets again."

You're pretty sure Dave's rolling his eyes behind his shades. "Welcome to my life, Egbert."

"They are not fucking gross," you say, settling next to the smuppet and John's intended seat.

"Who do you think you're fooling?" John kicks at the smuppet, careful to keep his shoes the only thing to touch it, until it falls to the floor. "Dave told me what you use these things for, you sicko."

You make sure to raise your eyebrow high enough that they can see it over your shades. "Haven't seen it for yourself yet?"

John pulls a face and slumps into his seat, releasing Dave from his grip. "Fuuuuuck no."

You smirk. "Well that's a fuckin' tragedy that needs to be rectified."

"No. Hell no. Hell fucking no."

"What?" You make as if to get up and swap the Blu-rays out, pausing before you're actually out of your seat. "Best porn you'll ever see."

He makes a gagging noise. "I will _vomit_ on you and not even feel bad."

"Bro, knock it off," Dave says, frowning.

"You'd rather I put on something boring like Debbie Does Dallas?"

John shuddered. "I will _still_ vomit on you."

This kid is forever throwing challenges at you, it seems. You get to your feet with full intention to scope out the porn shelf. "Hey, c'mon, gimme a kink. I bet I've got something up your alley."

He glowers. "How about the kink of sexual intercourse is gross and I don't want to watch it?"

You pause. "Gross?"

"Totally disgusting, dude. No offense to your profession and stuff, but I would rather watch paint dry all day than sit through five seconds of pornography."

Something clicks into place. He's not straight, but he's incompatible enough that Dave laughed in your face. "Are you five kinds of repressed... or just a sex-repulsed asexual?"

Dave's tiny smirk is all the affirmation you need.

John blinks. "You've heard of asexuality?"

"No, I've known I was gay since fifteen and never bothered to learn what the rest of the GLBT acronym stands for." You roll your eyes. "Of course I've fucking heard of it."

"Okay, yes, I am that thing." John relaxes. "At least I think so. I haven't compared with another asexual, but sex is really gross and I don't want it, so I probably match the description."

"John," Dave says, "we've been over this shit. You are more ace than a fucking amoeba. I could play you in poker. People mistake you for a hardware store."

John lightly shoves him.

You put on your best poker face as you return to the couch and make a point not to tease John with any more porn or smuppets for the rest of the movie.

No goddamn wonder Dave was so amused at your expense. There's still a chance John might be romantically interested in men, so in a way you're technically compatible, but you're not so sure you could make do in a celibate relationship.

No, you're pretty damn sure you're not willing to go celibate for anyone -- especially not your little bro's dork of a friend. Too bad you've no doubt that 1) you're going to be seeing a lot more of John Egbert now that he's local, and 2) you're not going to stop noticing he's hot.

You really didn't need a reminder of how damn long it's been since you last had a boyfriend.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I sort of went out of my way to avoid any "What's asexuality?" "Let me give you a play-by-play!"-style Q&A dialogue, because, for one, I'm pretty sure all the characters involved have already done their homework on the subject... and for another, oh god, I hate it when the entire story screeches to a halt to explain something to the audience as if it's a PSA. It pretty much never sounds organic.
> 
> Still, it occurs to me that some folks might be wondering about asexuality (or worried I'm misrepresenting it, since there's only one example to go by in this story), so have the PSA here: Asexuality only means you're not sexually _attracted_ to anyone. Some asexuals are sex-repulsed (like how I'm writing John), some are sex-neutral, and some enjoy sex. Some are interested in pursuing romance, others are aromantic -- though you can be aro without being ace. If you want to know more, you can check out [this link](http://www.asexuality.org/home/overview.html).


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for a liiittle tiny bit of underage drinking in this chapter, in case that bothers anyone.

You always underestimate Dave's ability to throw your life for a loop. He hasn't been in school for even a year and your time has altered from "seasons" to "semesters." It's not autumn, winter, and spring anymore; it's fall semester, holiday break, and spring semester. Stupid shit like this is why you home schooled him. That, and not trusting public school teachers anywhere near your little bro.

He seems to be adjusting to formal education well enough. You don't know what his grades are, but he's not on academic warning so you don't really care beyond that. He found a job near the start of spring semester, though he hasn't mentioned where and you haven't asked; you just know that it's why he hasn't been home much lately.

It's during one of his shifts that someone knocks at the door. You don't exactly get many unexpected visitors at the top of a skyscraper and you're tempted to pretend you're not home, but it could be entertaining (or important, but meh). You hope they're selling religion. Those are the most fun to scare off. You like to time how long it takes before they run for the elevator; your record is eight seconds and you're damn proud of it.

You're too bewildered to be disappointed when you open the door to find one John Egbert. It's not like you don't see John at least once a week -- and, nope, your stupidass crush on him still hasn't skipped town -- and it's not like Dave tells you about his playdates anymore, but generally speaking he schedules them for when he's actually fucking home. What really catches you, though, is that this is the first time John hasn't greeted you with a goofy smile.

He shuffles his feet and keeps his head bowed. "H-hi, Mr. Strider. Is, um." He swallows and, holy crap, he's sniffling. "Is Dave around?"

"He's at work another two hours." You should probably soften your voice or something. What the hell does a soothing tone sound like? On second thought, you should not try it out for the first time on a kid you barely know. You'll save it for Dave; if you fuck it up, he's still stuck with you.

John raises his eyes and, damn, they're puffy; no pretending he hasn't been crying now. "O-oh. Sorry."

He turns away and it takes most of your self-control not to flashstep in his path and herd him inside. He probably wouldn't like that. "You can wait for him in here if you want," you say instead. "Won't bother me."

He pauses a moment before nodding. "Thanks," he mumbles as he slips into the apartment. He settles on the futon, keeping his limbs uncharacteristically close.

You sit on the opposite end of the futon. "Everything okay?"

"What do you think?" He glares at his knees.

You shrug. "I think you're fucking upset about something, but I'm also giving you an opening to tell me to stuff it and mind my own damn business if you want."

"Sorry." He sniffles loudly before continuing, "My girlfriend broke up with me."

"Ow." You frown, mostly at yourself for feeling that little bit of relief that he's single again. "That's rough, kid. She that girl you met the end of last semester?"

He nods. "Our three month anniversary was gonna be next week."

"What happened?" You try for a quiet tone since soothing is a little too foreign to you.

"I told her about my orientation," he says after a moment's hesitation.

You tense. "And that was a problem?"

"I don't fucking know. I guess?" He holds his hands up in a confused shrug. "She kept acting as if I was trying to trick her or something, like how dare I withhold sex from her and I'm probably just lying to hide I'm homosexual or something."

"Why the hell _didn't_ you just tell her you're ace before you started dating? Would've spared you the heartache of running into a bigot three months down the road."

John groans and flops back against the futon, digging his palms into both eyes. "Maybe I don't want someone's first impression of me to be that I'm a giant prude! Do you introduce yourself as gay first thing when you meet someone?"

"I might if I'm trying to fucking date them," you deadpan.

He snorts with a bitter smile and wipes at his eyes. "I just thought maybe if she got to know me and liked me enough, she wouldn't give a fuck that I wasn't going to put out."

You shrug. "So she's not for you. If she can't stand the thought of going celibate for you, clearly you weren't meant for each other anyway."

"But I liked her," he says with a small tremble in his voice.

"And you'll get over her. Look, kid." You stare him straight in the face. "Eventually you're gonna find someone who likes you so much that they won't give a shit what they have to sacrifice to keep you, so forget about the dickheads who can't get past your orientation."

You're the biggest fucking hypocrite in the whole wide room. Sure, tell him to hold out for someone willing to forgo sex, all the while hoping he asks you out as if you haven't fantasized about him naked and wriggling beneath you and screaming your name and- You cross your legs.

"Still fucking hurts," he mumbles.

"Yeah, rejection does that. Just gotta wait it out. You want a beer to help?"

He starts. "But I just turned nineteen."

You raise an eyebrow. "You saying you never had a beer?"

He averts his gaze. "N-no."

You smirk a little as you get up from the futon. "So, Guinness or Flat Tire?"

"Aren't those... kind of legitimately decent quality?" he says, eyes widening. "No Coors Lite or Budweiser for irony's sake?"

"Fuck no." You grimace. "Irony only extends to things you can enjoy for their shit quality. Piss beer isn't enjoyable on any damn level." As you head for the kitchen, you call over your shoulder, "If you don't give me a preference, you're getting Flat Tire."

"I'm okay with that."

You nod and procure two bottles of booze from the cupboard, snapping off their caps before you return to the living room.

"Thanks, Mr. Strider," he says as he accepts the offered bottle.

You allow yourself to sit a little closer to him this time. "You don't have to call me 'Mr. Strider,' Egbert."

He grins and takes a swig of beer. "Well, you've always been free to call me by my first name too, Bro."

You snort but there's something about his innocent expression that makes you falter. "You don't actually think my name is Bro, right?"

John stares blankly at you. "Uh."

You really know how to pick the smart ones, don't you? You resist the urge to facepalm as you say, "It's Dirk."

He smiles. "Like the dagger?"

You smirk back. Yeah, you pick 'em pretty good sometimes. "Exactly."

With anyone else, you might try making a move, but the kid's just had his heart broken and you're not all that sold on the celibacy idea anyway. You put on a shitty action movie that makes his eyes light up -- you really shouldn't pay such close attention to his face, or anywhere else really -- until Dave comes home to give him a more appropriate shoulder to cry on in the privacy of the other room.

You only nod to them as they vacate and give them zero reason to suspect you're kind of disappointed to lose your eyecandy. You finish off your beer then head for the bathroom without bothering to turn off the DVD. You have some tension you desperately need to work off in the shower.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yeah, that's enough buildup, they're getting together next chapter.


	4. Chapter 4

You try to stop thinking of John Egbert as a romantic prospect.

You fail to stop thinking of John Egbert as a romantic prospect.

Over the next few months, through the rest of spring semester and summer break, you make a point of DJing again and picking up the guys you meet on the job in hopes it'll at least distract you. Most of the time, your flings are barely more than unintentional one-night stands. The longest you stick with anyone is two weeks -- the guy in question is Swedish, attractive, and gives great head, but you part over creative differences after he unironically scoffs at "new media" such as video games and comics.

Throughout all the dates, the reluctant thought of "could you actually handle celibacy?" lingers in your mind. It makes you pay more attention to certain details you've never noticed before. After the second guy in a row who doesn't know how to give head while properly veiling his teeth, you make a horrifying discovery: sex isn't that great.

 _Good_ sex is God's gift to man, there's no way around that. If you can snag yourself a decent partner who knows what the fuck he's doing, there's no substitute for that unreal experience. But at least half of the time, you would have had a better time just using your damn hand. When your partner does manage to beat jacking off, he makes up for it with a shit personality or severe fear of puppets.

It kind of makes you rethink what you're willing to tolerate.

Same as last year, John flies to Houston a week before classes to readjust to the new timezone and climate from the comfort of your apartment as he waits for the dorms to open. He hasn't gotten any less hot over the summer.

Fuck it. You know what? Fuck it. You're going for it. You're not getting laid by staying single and what little action you can get lately is rarely satisfying anyway. You might as well remain unlaid and date the one hot guy you have consistently been able to tolerate over a decent period of time.

If you can just get him to notice you already. He is thick as fuck sometimes.

He still doesn't seem to know you're even in the same room when you flashstep. Just spending more time with him than you did in the past causes no change in him -- dammit, he probably thinks you're just making friends, after how much you shot the shit last spring semester. You're beginning to wonder if he'd think anything of it if you just straight-up kissed him.

Dave notices your extra attention though. He catches your shoulder once when you're alone. "Dude, what are you doing?" he says at low volume. "You remember the ace thing? The celibate thing? The 'he's never going to touch your ass' thing?"

You give him a blank stare and speak in monotone. "Yes, bro, I remember that your friend is a giant prude. Do you have a point, or do you just like throwing out people's orientations like beads at Mardi Gras?"

He frowns and backs down, but he shoots you uncomfortable glances for the rest of the day.

By the last night of John's stay, you've made no progress. Your options are down to "give it up" or "confess like a damn schoolgirl." You're not really keen on the latter under the best of circumstances and you absolutely refuse when Dave's present, but you're given an opportunity you really shouldn't shun when John wanders out of his room a little past midnight.

You're working at your computer and you stay quiet as you watch him head to the kitchen. You hear the fridge door open, the clatter of swords against the floor, a sigh, and the door closing thirty seconds later. John emerges from the kitchen empty-handed.

You turn in your chair, hanging an arm over the back. "You need anything?"

He jumps a little at your voice, then shrugs. "Nah, just couldn't sleep. Pre-semester jitters and stupid stuff."

"Want a beer to fight the insomnia?" You get to your feet. "We could make a tradition out of it."

He smirks. "You sneaking me alcohol I'm not supposed to have to calm me down?"

"Sure. Call it a date even. You still single?"

"Yeah, but I'm kinda young for you," he says with a laugh. He takes a seat on the futon, though, and you take that as a sign that he's interested in your company at least.

"Same age as Dave, right?" You settle next to him. "Fifteen years difference ain't that big a deal."

"Dunno, dude. By next week, you might be shaking your walking stick from the porch as you yell at me to get off your damn lawn." He shakes his fist at an imaginary wily teenager as example.

" _Wrong_." You point a finger in his face. "I'll be shaking a katana."

John cracks up. "Duh. My bad."

You could go for the kill, part of you knows you should, but fuck being forward. You delay it. "Pre-semester jitters and stupid stuff, huh? How stupid we talking?"

He ducks his head. "Pretty stupid."

You twist your torso to face him. "Lay it on me."

"What?" He narrows his eyes. "No. Why should I tell you?"

"Because I specialize in stupid and you've got nothing to lose if I think less of you. Besides, whatever's bothering you, I assure you I've done stupider for fun and profit."

His mouth twists as he considers you, then he finally mutters, "I dunno if biology was a good idea."

Your eyebrows raise a little. "Why not?"

"I'm not sure I'm cut out for the scientific field. Or grad school. Or sophomore classes."

"Gonna make me into a broken record, John. Why not?"

"My grades aren't great," he says, shoulders sagging. "I mean, I'm passing, but these are the _easy_ classes and I'm getting B minuses and C pluses, you know?"

You shrug. "So get a tutor if you like the work, drop out if you don't. You've got other options."

He snorts. "Drop out and what? Be a hobo?"

"We'll call that Plan Y, right above Plan Z: Start the zombie apocalypse with your biology degree. Let's talk plan B, though. What else have you considered, career-wise?"

"Nothing," he says, too quickly.

"You're a shit liar. Out with it."

He scowls. "Don't laugh, but... I've thought about trying stand-up comedy."

You smirk. "Do it."

He stares at you, wide-eyed. "Dude, are you nuts? Do you know how rare it is to make a living off of that?"

"John, you are speaking to a guy who made a goddamn _fortune_ off of Internet porn featuring puppets. "

John rolls his eyes. "Yeah, guess you wouldn't get it."

You rest your arm on the back of the futon. "Just saying, taking risks can work out sometimes." You shrug. "And if that fails, you could always marry rich. I know a dude. He's totally into you and hot as shit, no less."

"I'm not going to marry for money, jerkweed," he says, wrinkling his nose.

"You sure?" You cock your head, giving him your best smirk. "He's also hot, I think I mentioned."

"Oh, well, in _that_ case, sign me up," John says, heavy on the sarcasm. "Why not? You'd recommend this hot, rich douchebag, right?"

"Yeah. You just gotta be into awesome pointy sunglasses."

He lets out a startled laugh. "Uh. Are you being ironic right now?"

You look him straight in the face. "John, you remember what I said about beer after your last breakup?"

He tilts his head and furrows his brow. "That piss beer isn't worth the trouble of being cool?"

You frown. "Okay, that was actually not the damn point. You can't be ironic one hundred percent of the time or you get predictable. There are things worth being sincere for." You hold up a finger. "Alcohol is one of those things." You raise a second finger. "Romance is another."

John's grin slowly fades as he considers you. "Are you serious? I'm... I mean... y'know..." He trails off.

"Visually impaired?" you ask.

He shoots you a glare. "Not _that_. Starts with an A? Big-time minority?"

"Asian?"

He shoves your shoulder. "I'm asexual and don't want to have sexual intercourse ever, smartass!"

"Yeah, I caught that." You lightly shove back. "It's a little more relevant whether your romantic interests lean hetero or bi."

He stares a long moment, blushing. "Bi," he mumbles.

"You got any limits besides not touching junk? Bans on kissing or anything?"

"N-not really?" The blush gets worse. "I like kissing and, um. Cuddling and shit."

You nod. You can work with that. "You interested in dating a Strider fifteen years older than you?"

"Uh..." He looks lost. "Wow, um. Well, it... That's kinda..." He rubs the back of his neck, staring anywhere but at you. "I wasn't really expecting to have to consider that tonight. Or, uh. Ever."

You wait for him, keeping your face a perfect indifferent facade.

He takes a deep breath and ponders for half a minute before turning back to you. "I don't think I'd mind trying? To date a Strider fifteen years older than me."

"It's a yes or no question, John. Can I kiss you or not?"

"Sure?"

You sigh. "Do you even listen?"

"Yes! Yes, okay? You ca-"

You don't let him finish. You lean over and kiss him, keeping it soft and chaste because you don't know shit about his limits yet. His eyes go wide and his blush returns with a vengeance, but he kisses back.

"You're supposed to close your eyes," you murmur as you pull away.

"So are you."

You snort. "Who said mine weren't? You can't see 'em."

He leans towards you with a stubborn glare. "Then how did you see mine, doucheface?"

"Whatever. Do-over then." You meet him halfway and lock lips again.

He lets out a muffled squeak in surprise before kissing back. You raise your hand and manually press his eyelids down. You study his face, wary for any signs of distress, but he relaxes the longer it goes on.

You sense someone else in the room and raise your head. Dave's standing in the doorway, staring straight at the two of you. His poker face is solid and you'd be proud of him for it if you didn't want a better idea of what's going through his head right now. He turns back for his room without a sound, not even alerting John to his presence.

"Dirk?" John says, noticing that you're distracted but not the cause of it.

You stroke his cheek. "Was that good by you?"

He blushes and nods. "Um. Yeah. That's good by me."

"Sweet." You smirk and give him another peck. By the time he finally stumbles to bed, it's half past four. That was the most virginal makeout session you've had in years and you don't give a shit.


	5. Chapter 5

\-- ghostyTrickster [GT] began pestering turntechGodhead [TG] \--

GT: dave?   
GT: are you there?   
GT: i haven't seen you in a while is all.   
GT: and i guess i'm getting kinda worried that you're avoiding me...   
TG: im busy   
TG: fuck off   
GT: aw c'mon, please don't be mad.   
TG: for anything else i wouldnt give a single shit   
TG: shits just arent things i give out   
TG: but for once i have every right to be mad even by the standards of the cool code of conduct   
TG: bros dont date other bros bros bro   
GT: i...   
GT: what?   
TG: ugh   
TG: bros don't date other bros' bros, bro.   
TG: fucking happy?   
GT: well now i think i'm in shock, actually.   
TG: normally id give you a moment to savor those elusive strider commas and apostrophes   
TG: but right now im still pissed   
GT: hey, i've seen strider punctuation before! dirk's grammar is kind of on par with rose's.   
TG: john youre not fucking helping with the pissed off thing   
GT: oops.   
GT: dave, i'm sorry!   
GT: i didn't think you'd give shits over this.   
TG: youre dating my fucking bro   
TG: how would you feel if i tried dating your dad   
GT: eeeeeew! D:   
GT: dude, eeew! why would you even???   
TG: exactly   
GT: but this isn't anything like that! your bro's not THAT old and he's your BRO, not your DAD.   
TG: yeah well i dont see much difference from where im standing   
GT: look, if it really bothers you that much, i'll talk to him and call it off.   
GT: you're my best friend and i'd rather stay single than make things awkward between us, okay?   
TG: im not going to make you fucking break up with him jesus christ   
GT: then what the hell do you want????   
TG: i want this to not be a fucking thing i ever had to worry about   
TG: because i didnt think it was even a candidate for the list of things to worry about   
TG: seeing as youre fucking ace and hes a goddamn horny pervert   
GT: so you're going to be pissed at me if i date him, but you don't want me to call it off either, and basically you're just going to avoid me forever no matter what i do.   
TG: ill get over it john   
TG: but for now   
TG: just fuck off

\-- turntechGodhead [TG] ceased pestering ghostyTrickster [GT] \--

* * *

You haven't seen Dave around much. Normally you wouldn't even make note of it, except John's been over a lot and you were expecting to have to fight for alone time. You can't say you mind.

You've never taken things so slow in your life. Hell, you lost your virginity at fourteen, yet here you are hesitant to even take it to second base. You haven't so much as been on a proper "date" yet -- though it's hard to care about traditional crap anyway. Mostly you just settle on the futon together, pop in a movie, and make out. Sometimes you order pizza.

You learn quickly never to put in a movie John hasn't seen before or your vies for affection go unnoticed as he's too engrossed in the screen to return any kisses. Even movies he's seen before aren't always safe.

For all intents and purposes, your mouths have been glued together for the past ten minutes as you continually trade long, gentle kisses. At some audio cue from the movie, his head snaps forward, leaving you hanging in the kissing edition of blue balls.

"Wait, this is the best part!" he says with an excited grin.

You don't bother changing your position even by an inch as you smirk at him, staying so close your forehead is almost resting against his temple.

Why are you so attracted to men who unabashedly adore their media? You could never give as many shits as he does, and you're proud of that indifference, but you can't stop admiring how his face lights up over a stupid action movie.

Satisfied with his favorite scene, he settles back and remembers you exist, his nose brushing against yours as he faces you. He returns your smile. "What?"

"John Egbert, did you just ignore me for Nic fucking Cage?"

He blushes. "I wasn't ignoring you!"

"You so were, bro." You bump foreheads. "You've got a non-sexual hard-on for that actor, just admit it."

"I do not have a hard-on for Nic Cage, non-sexual or otherwise!" he says, speaking too fast.

You kiss him. "I mention recently what a bad liar you are?" you mumble against his mouth.

He smacks your shoulder as he returns the kiss. "I mention recently what an _asshole_ you are?"

"Don't have to. I'm well aware." You deepen the kiss and he lets out a startled, muffled squeak. You pull back immediately. "You okay?"

"Um." He blushes worse and adjusts his jaw. "Y-yeah, I just... wasn't expecting that."

"I didn't just take your tongue virginity, did I?"

He shakes his head. "N-no, my last girlfriend and I did that a couple of times. But, you know, we'd been dating a couple of months, so." He scratches behind his ear. "Are we moving a little fast?"

It probably would not lessen his worries if you told him you've sucked the cocks of men you'd known for five minutes. "The only thing that matters is if it's too fast for you, John."

"Oh." He considers you, then wraps his arms around your shoulders, hesitating another moment before moving in.

It's hard not to laugh at his inexperienced fumbling as he tries to stick his tongue down your throat, until he bangs his teeth against yours and you wince. You catch him by the back of the neck to readjust him so it's not a painful experience for the both of you.

"Sorry," he garbles into your mouth.

You lean back with a sigh. "Someone's tongue's gonna get bit if you try to fucking talk, dumbass." You hug him around the waist and pull him into your lap. "Thought we were taking shit slow."

He wriggles until he's more comfortably situated, keeping an arm around your shoulder. "We are."

"Then stop rushing." You stroke his cheek. "I fucking got this." You give him a careful, deep kiss, letting him feel how they're _supposed_ to go as you traverse his mouth with purpose. You grunt in warning when he tries to kiss back with too much enthusiasm. He takes the hint and just lets you show him his way around, mirroring you when he can.

By round two, John's so distracted by playing with your tongue that he doesn't even notice as the movie reaches its pivotal scene. The only thing capable of prying you apart is a fire. Or your little brother coming home from work. Dammit, Dave.

No sooner do you hear the front door open and close than Dave's flashstepped to his room without a word.

"Not even a greeting?" John grumbles, watching after him with a scowl.

You shrug. "Whatever. He's like that."

"Yeah." John sighs and climbs off your lap to settle next to you instead. "Probably trying to hide so we don't see he has an emotion on his face again."

You frown. "Hey, kid's chill as fuck."

John lets out a long snort. "Bullshit."

"Well." It's hard to argue. "He tries. Just doesn't come natural to him is all. Probably got too much emotion from his mom's side of the family or something."

John's interest perks. "What the hell happened to Dave's mom anyway?"

"She doesn't want him."

His excitement crumbles. "What?"

You shrug like it ain't no big deal, because it isn't. "She was in high school when he was born and, like most teenagers, she was in no damn position to look after an infant. She would have lost him to the adoption system if I hadn't taken him."

"What about his dad?"

You turn to stare at him. Your mouth may even be agape. That's another joke, right? He has to _know_...

He chuckles nervously and rubs at the back of his neck. "Uh, sorry, I guess he'd be your dad too! Unless you share a mom?" He furrows his brow. "Wait, no, that doesn't even make sense, if she had Dave in high school, you're like the same age as her."

C'mon, John, work it out...

"Oh my god." His eyes widen. "He was old enough to have you and he was fucking a _high schooler_? I mean, uh, not that... there's... anything wrong with age gaps..." He clears his throat, blushing suddenly. "But I'm pretty sure that is an illegal type of age gap! Oh." His face falls. "Oh, he's in prison, isn't he. Fuck. Fuck, sorry, I'm being totally insensitive. Forget I said anything."

You sigh. "He's not in prison, John."

"Oh." He still frowns and cocks his head to the side. "So what's up with him? Is he a giant sleazeball or something?"

"Pretty much." You roll your eyes and are almost disappointed he can't see it. "The asshole's the biggest fag you'll ever meet but he tried to play it straight in high school like a dumbass and got some poor girl knocked up for it."

He nods, staring at his knees. "Dirk?"

"Yeah?"

He goes quiet and you use the time to hook your arm around his shoulders and kiss his temple. According to plan, he relaxes against you and the wrinkles in his forehead smooth out as he leans into your arm. Then he goes and kills the moment anyway.

"Are you Dave's dad?"

You run your fingers through his hair. "Genetically speaking, guess so."

He jerks away from you, his eyes wide and his mouth hanging open. "Oh my god."

Your shoulders tense but you keep any anxiety far from your expression and voice. "John-"

"I've been kissing my best friend's _dad_?"

"It's seriously not a big deal."

He points a finger your direction. "You've been kissing someone younger than your _son_!"

"Fuck the genetics of it, he's my _brother_." You watch him closely for any sign that you're on the right track to calming him down. "I'm not his parent, okay?"

He deflates but still keeps his distance. "Dirk, I... That's really fucked up." He's silent a long moment, just studying you. "I should probably think this over."

"Sure." You nod. "You need to take your time, go for it. Take all the time you need. Go digest this infodump." God, please don't let this be what scares him off, not this soon. At least let him stick around long enough that you fuck up this relationship properly yourself instead of losing him over _Dave_. Shit was going so well too.

John chews his lower lip and stares at the floor. "Look, I... Fuck, I don't know." He hesitates and moves in for a hug, pressing his face against your shoulder. You try not to cling as you return it. "I'll talk to you later, okay?"

"Yeah." You stroke his hair until he stands.

He still looks lost, but he keeps glancing over his shoulder at you with enough longing that you think it's an encouraging sign. Maybe you'll still be okay. If you don't fuck it up.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I really wasn't aiming to have any cliffhangers, but then I just couldn't find a way for John _not_ to kinda panic here. Best option to keep the drama from escalating seemed to be "remove John so he can panic in private and calm the frick down."


	6. Chapter 6

\-- ghostyTrickster [GT] began pestering turntechGodhead [TG] \--

GT: DIRK'S YOUR DAD?  
TG: no hes my goddamn bro  
GT: uh....... oh jeeeeeez...  
GT: he... never told you?  
TG: omfg  
TG: john i am aware that i am the resulting product of when his wang met some chicks twat  
TG: that still doesnt make him my motherfucking dad  
GT: actually i think mother fucking is exactly what he did.  
TG: wow  
TG: i know hes your bf and its only natural to lustily imagine such scenarios but maybe keep your sexual fantasies about him to yourself  
GT: auuuugggghhh!  
GT: i'm coming to you for help, you gross douche!  
TG: help with what  
TG: how to annoy and disappoint him im pretty good at that  
GT: no. ugh.  
GT: it's just  
GT: i just found out.  
GT: and...  
GT: this whole relationship is balls more awkward than i thought it would be. :\  
TG: yeah  
TG: so  
GT: so.....?  
TG: yep thats what i said  
GT: that's it?  
TG: pretty much  
GT: but you're not rambling.  
GT: i'm scared. D:  
GT: hold me.  
TG: ask bro  
GT: fuck you!  
TG: thats still bros domain  
GT: eeeeeww!!!!  
TG: telling him you said that  
GT: he knows i'd say that!  
GT: look, i just wanted your opinion. this is really confusing and kind of gross and i don't know what to think on my own!  
TG: shouldnt you be talking to lalonde about this shit  
GT: you're the one actually involved!  
GT: he's your dad!  
TG: bro  
GT: whatever!! you know him best!  
GT: and you clearly think of him as your dad at least a little or you wouldn't be AVOIDING me so much for dating him!  
TG: no hes really not my dad ok  
TG: hes an older sibling who happens to have passed his genetics down to me through the magical act of procreation  
TG: i think we can all agree that what he did with me can barely be qualified as "raising"  
GT: but still!  
GT: if i marry him won't that make me your stepdad??  
TG: .......  
TG: youre planning on marrying my bro  
GT: i don't fucking know!!  
GT: we're dating, so it's kind of a possibility????  
TG: is he aware youre already thinking about marriage  
GT: dude, shut up!  
TG: nah man i think we need to get our calendars out and see about booking a minister  
TG: ill draw up the invitations  
TG: sweet bro and hella jeff cordially invite you to the unholy union of egbert and strider  
GT: auuuugh no i don't want to be my best friend's stepdad!!!!!!  
TG: think the word youre really lookin for here is stepbro  
GT: you're in so much denial holy shit. no wonder rose psychologically dissects you all the time.  
TG: is there a point to all this  
TG: weve discussed how weird shit is  
TG: now what  
TG: are we done  
TG: you vented to your hearts content?  
GT: i  
GT: i don't know whether i should stay with him anymore. :( knowing he's your dad.  
TG: bro  
GT: shut up.  
TG: well heres the million dollar question john  
TG: do you actually want to break up with him?  
GT: ummmm... :\  
TG: tho i guess youre phoning a friend right now thats within the rules  
TG: let me putz around deliberating until the timer goes down  
TG: hmmm this is tough i think i saw the answer to this on national geographic once shit what was it  
TG: wait i remembered  
TG: its dec  
TG: oops call dropped  
GT: ..."december"?  
TG: "decide on your fucking own hes your damn boyfriend"  
GT: bluuuhhhh. that is a shitty answer. why did i ever choose you as my phone-a-friend?  
TG: because you know in your heart that im the only guy wholl lead you straight  
TG: straight into admitting that this is your fucking decision  
GT: if i don't break up with him, will you hate me?  
TG: i will not fucking hate you  
TG: were best bros arent we  
TG: best bros dont hate each other over shitty taste in romantic partners  
GT: hey!!  
TG: just try to deny it  
GT: ......  
GT: well i still like him.  
TG: just like your objectively shitty action flicks  
GT: he's willing to go celibate for me. that at least is pretty much the opposite of shitty!  
TG: ok one point to him  
GT: besides, you're the one always talking about how outrageously coooooool he is even though he totally ISN'T.  
TG: coolness and romantic potential are two different things  
TG: he is the coolest motherfucker you will ever meet  
TG: thats all he has going for him  
GT: other than the celibacy thing.  
TG: right  
GT: and he's pretty cute.  
TG: of course he is he looks like me with dumb hair  
GT: pffffffff  
GT: maybe that's it, maybe he reminds me of you, except more boyfriend material-like.  
TG: i know you love me john you dont have to skirt around it  
GT: you wish.  
GT: i don't know. i wouldn't have thought this would ever work, but now that we're dating i just... i like him? kind of a lot?  
GT: he's nice to be around and kiss.  
GT: it's REALLY fucking weird that i'm dating your dad though.  
TG: tell me about it  
TG: also fucking weird: hearing your best bro talk about kissing your bro  
GT: ew. sorry. you're right. i will shut up about the nice kissing.  
GT: maybe we can just...  
GT: hang out separately?  
GT: you and me  
GT: me and him  
GT: no crossover?  
TG: yeah for now thats probably for the best  
GT: thanks dave.  
TG: for what  
TG: i aint done shit  
GT: dude, i think a lot of guys less cool than you might have freaked out and decided i wasn't their best bro anymore, but here you are giving me advice instead.  
TG: well i am chill regarding all things  
GT: yeah pretty cool, bro.  
GT: wanna help me with math homework tomorrow?  
TG: fuck no  
TG: but i can do it anyway  
GT: :D  
TG: whatever  
TG: speaking of ive got my own homework to conquer over here so  
TG: unless youve got more drama you need help sorting out i better get on that  
GT: yeah me too. bluh.  
GT: see ya.  
TG: later

\-- turntechGodhead [TG] ceased pestering ghostyTrickster [GT] \--

* * *

You don't actually remember the last time you talked to Dave. Talking isn't a thing either of you bother with that often, not to each other. You exchange cool nods, cooler beats, and the occasional sword clashes. Ain't no need for heart-to-hearts.

Dave flashsteps in your way the morning after your... fight, confrontation, whatever it was with John. His arms are crossed and he faces you with a stern expression. "Bro."

"What?" you say in a tone that communicates Not In The Mood. Dave ignores it.

"You're dating my best friend. In case you haven't noticed, that is fucking weird and you should be ashamed of yourself for such perversion. It outdoes your goddamn puppet fetish." He cocks his head. "That said, he clearly likes you for some reason, so I'll let it slide."

You scoff. "How gracious of you. As if it was any of your damn business to begin with." You move around him.

"Letting that shit attitude of yours slide too, 'cos I'm trying to get to the fucking point here," he says, sidestepping back into your path. "Point being, break his heart and I'll break your face. Pressure him into something he doesn't want to do and I'll break your dick."

You fix him with a dangerous stare hidden behind tinted glass. "You're lucky I don't plan on doing either of those things. Wouldn't want you eating your words."

"Back at you." He tries to flashstep away, but you snatch his arm as he passes. He's still not faster than you, not by a long shot.

"I'm not yanking John around, bro." You pull him closer by his sleeve. "But this is the last time I hear that kind of bullshit from you. Got it?"

His mouth twitches as he tries to mirror your poker face. "Got it."

You nod and let him go. You don't bother keeping track of him after he shoots off.

* * *

John greets you with a kiss. You don't think it's too optimistic to assume the odds are in your favor.

"You think it over?" you ask, pulling him into the apartment with an embrace.

He nods against your shoulder.

You kick the door shut. "What's the verdict?"

"This is fucking weird, but so is a lot of shit." He leans up to press his forehead against yours, smirking. "Especially where the goddamn Striders are concerned."

"Word you're looking for is 'awesome,' John."

"Meet you halfway. I'll call it both, you awesome fucking weirdo." He kisses you and it's as if everything you taught him about frenching has already flown out the window.

You hold in a sigh as you tap the back of his head to remind him to follow your damn lead. He grunts but does tone down the well-intentioned but misguided enthusiasm, letting you control the pace. He's a fast learner and mimics you fairly well for a newbie. You hope some of the technique will actually stick this time.

You wrap your arms around his back and hold him close for a while, just savoring that he's still letting you do this, you haven't fucked up that bad yet. He buries his face against your neck and you should know better than to hope the idea of sucking throat would even occur to him, but his breath is nice at least.

"You were fifteen," he murmurs.

"Hm?"

"I kept thinking," he nuzzles against your shoulder, "holy fuck, I'm dating someone old enough to be _my_ dad. Except you're not really. Dave's only fifteen years younger than you."

Your grip on him tightens. "Yeah. He was out of diapers by the time I was legal."

"Shit." He shudders.

"Yeah," you say again. "Don't fuck girls, John. Save them for the lesbians."

He snorts and bursts into chuckles. "Don't worry about me, Dirk. Not planning to fuck any boys either."

You smirk. "Well, no one's perfect, myself excluded."

He lightly shoves your shoulder. "Asshole." He kisses you again.

You half-carry, half-drag him to the futon. You don't even bother with the pretense of a movie. You just snuggle close and pick your makeouts up from where they were interrupted last time.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is all fluff and I'm not sorry.

You haven't laid the futon flat in years. You're not entirely sure it'll still go, but you give it a shot anyway because John lost track of time studying for midterms with Dave and you are not sending him out to find a cab at three in the morning in downtown Houston. (You could always dig out a sleeping bag and let him camp in Dave's room, but fuck that.) The frame creaks as it slides into position. So far, so good.

"Are you sure this is okay?" John asks. He's wearing boxers and an old T-shirt you found for him, his glasses safely tucked into a bag. It's the most skin you've seen on him so far.

You rest a knee on the futon to check the stability. It doesn't even wobble. "Do you snore?"

"No."

You toss him a pillow. "Then I'm only concerned with whether you're okay with it."

He crawls onto the other side of the mattress. "It's just sharing a bed."

"And the inevitable clinging in our sleep."

He smirks as he snuggles against his pillow. "How the hell is that any different than what we do when we're awake?"

"Point." You motion for him to roll over. He gives you a confused look but obeys so his back is turned to you. You wrap your arms around his torso and pull him tight against your chest until you're spooning him. He relaxes in your grip as you kiss at his jaw. "You need a blanket?"

He laughs. "Like this? Hell no, I'll burn up!"

"You Northern wimps."

He flicks his head back enough to bonk you in the forehead. "Come up to Washington after a good snow and we'll see who's a wimp."

You chuckle. "Pass." You hold a long kiss against his neck until he lets out a sigh.

When the hell was the last time you fell asleep next to someone fully clothed, just basking in their presence without any afterglow to elevate your perceptions of them? You hold tight to his warmth, studying the rise and fall of his breath. It's fucking embarrassing, really, how goddamn content you feel around this kid. What can you do though? Sometimes he just makes your heart go doki-doki like a blushing schoolgirl and your dick go uppy-uppy like a-

Wait. _Fuck_.

John squirms and you immediately pull away. "Sorry," you say and allow a cringe to pass over your features in case he isn't sure you mean it. "I've already passed on the message that it's not getting any use when you're around, but it still gets its hopes up sometimes."

He's blushing pretty badly and it's optimistic to read his expression as anything less than discomfort, but at least he doesn't look angry or scared. "It's okay," he mumbles. "I get it. Even asexuals have awkward moments." He climbs over and behind you, settling down against your back with an "oof."

"What the hell are you doing?"

He wraps his arms around your waist and nuzzles his face between your shoulder blades. "Being the big spoon, since I've got the better chance of not poking you."

You probably shouldn't mention that you wouldn't mind if he did poke you. "You do not get to be the big spoon, squirt."

"Too fucking late." He squeezes you.

You really prefer him wrapped up in your arms, but there's still something comforting about his chest pressed against your back. You reach around to at least mess up his hair and he chuckles. Dear god, the things you'll do for this kid.

You let him curl against you, and rub your sides, and press kisses against the back of your shirt as if you could feel them. He's so awkward at it that it's fucking adorable. It's only when he breathes on your neck and experimentally tries sucking on your skin that it gets uncomfortable.

Okay, no, you're not actually all right with this. You don't like him where it's difficult to see him and doing things you didn't orchestrate.

You turn over and catch his wrists, pressing him against the mattress as gently as you can manage while keeping your grip firm. You want to remind him that you're in charge, not trap him. He stares up at you with some surprise, but he's not upset.

You lean in to show him how to _really_ give a hickey. He's tense and your lips can feel every swallow he takes. You're half a second from pulling away to check on him when he finally relaxes. He takes a sharp breath as you work on his throat and you feel the vibration of a quiet moan more than you hear it.

You wait until the bruise is too dark to hide with amateur makeup application before you let up and kiss it softly. His eyes are half-lidded when you retreat from his neck; he almost looks in a daze. He smiles up at you and you lean in again to kiss him.

You start gentle, nudging his interest until he's kissing back, then raise the roughness levels bit by bit to rile him up. When you're both trying to swallow each other's tongues, you release your grip on his wrists and let him sit up. Just as planned, his mouth strays from yours, kissing at your chin then down to your throat where he latches on.

God, he's still bad at this, but there's only so much you can teach by example in the span of five minutes. You press a hand against the back of his neck, encouraging him to try a little more pressure. You rub his back when he gets the hint.

It's been far too long since you had someone sucking at your neck. (Or other places, but you're still adjusting to that being irrelevant.) Even his rookie performance is enough that you're in no hurry for him to stop. All the same, it's not difficult to keep the moans and sighs of contentment leashed. He hasn't earned any audible approval anyway.

Except, to your shock, he manages to wrestle a gasp out of you as you feel teeth sinking into your skin. _Shit_ , he wasn't supposed to do that -- Strider noises do not happen this early in a relationship -- and you can't decide if you hate it or love it. He looks smug when he releases you and examines his handiwork.

He's a cheeky bastard for such an inexperienced little shit.

Just for that you pin him by the shoulders and work his neck until he's moaning loud enough that Dave can probably hear it. As always, half of your concentration is paying attention for any sign that you're about to overstep John's boundaries, but he seems to have a pretty high makeout tolerance. (Noted: Heavy makeouts are okay. Surprise awkward boners in the back are not.) If John wasn't ace though, this is where pants would go flying. You banish that thought and roll onto your back, giving him a breather.

He's flushed, but you know you did good when he clambers after you, snuggling into your side and resting his head on your shoulder. You slide your hand over the back of his head. You weren't planning to call it a night yet, but he seems pretty wiped. You watch his eyes drift closed and rub his back when he goes limp against you.

With any of your previous partners, you would have gotten laid after a makeout this intense. It's surreal to contemplate, if things work out with John in the long-run, that this may be as intimate with another person as you ever get. If that's the case, you'll have to make an arrangement for some makeouts to end with you snagging some alone time in the shower. Your libido fucking _hates you_ right now.

You wrap your arms around him. For tonight, your libido will have to learn to fucking deal.

* * *

You hear your name distantly, breaking through a dream and pulling you out of sleep so gradually that you're not even sure if you imagined the voice.

"Dirk," John whispers again. He's still lying against your chest. He stares up at you, twisting his head to try to peek beneath your shades. "Are you asleep?"

"Not anymore," you mutter, your voice groggier than you like to hear.

"Sorry. I couldn't exactly tell." At least he looks sheepish. "Do you seriously sleep with these stupid things on?" He pokes the sharp ends of your glasses.

"Sometimes." You bat his hands away before he can disturb the shades further, then cover a yawn. As soon as you lower your hand, he crawls up to kiss you.

"Dirk?" he mumbles.

"Yeah?"

"Why the fuck have I never seen your eyes?"

You kiss his cheek and whisper into his ear, "Irony."

He snorts. "That's stupid. Lemme see 'em."

"Nah." You hug him around the shoulders.

He presses his face against your neck, without his glasses to get in the way, and nuzzles you. "Dooo iiiiit, you bashful fuck."

You grunt. "Don't you have classes today?"

"I can stay for another hour if I skip showering."

"Don't skip your shower, you disgusting ass." You lightly shove him.

He chuckles. "Totally gonna skip it if you don't show me your eyes."

"I can't just stop being ironic at the drop of a hat, John."

"Thought you said romance is worth being sincere for." He settles on your chest with a smug smile that plainly says he knows he's just won before you even have a chance to retaliate.

You rub at your temple. "Fuck. You're a stubborn shithead, you know that?"

His smirk just widens. "Ring-ring, phone call for Mr. Kettle. It's your friend Mr. Pot. He says you're fucking black."

"You still outdo me, kid." You slide up on your pillow so you're propped up at least a little and John adjusts with you to remain a stupidly comforting weight on your chest. You slide your shades off, keeping your eyes shut until they're fully uncovered.

You did not realize John's eyes were _that_ blue. He stares at you eye-to-eye, grinning away.

"What?" you say, cocking an eyebrow.

"Nothing. They're nice." He kisses you softly. "You should show them off more often."

"Nah, then they'd be nothing special. Lose a ton of points in both irony and mystery." Besides, it's hella easier to watch people and keep a steady poker face if no one can see your eyes.

"Oh god, the horror," John drawls. He settles in against your shoulder, smiling up at you and stroking the side of your face, his fingers lingering as they pass your eye.

Against your better judgment, you return the smile.


	8. Chapter 8

You go months without getting laid. Somehow this is not as godawful an experience as you would have assumed before you started dating John. There are days that the voluntary celibacy is torture, especially as your makeouts grow more aggressive while remaining chaste overall, but even with that challenge, on the whole it's hard to say you're unhappy.

You have a gorgeous boyfriend you get to cuddle at least five times a week. He's not particularly booksmart, but he's clever when you least expect it and you appreciate a guy who can take you off-guard. He's... still not a _great_ kisser, but he's improved fast and hasn't plateaued yet. Most importantly, not only does he put up with your flaws, but he practically glows when he sees you -- all the while more than happy to challenge your opinions and taste in media.

That said, you're not sure you could survive this relationship without one important compromise: for the love of god, you need to skip out on cuddles sometimes, no damn excuse needed, and grab some time in the shower instead.

You hold off on bringing it up for a while because John clings in the makeout aftermath and makes disappointed noises if you so much as suggest separating to grab food too soon -- and you're not going soft on him, but you maybe don't want to risk scaring him away too fast. There's only so long you can wait though.

You finally drop it on him after a makeout session that ends with him working your neck with such ferocity that you moan. As he unlatches, you pull away.

"I need to bail for a few minutes," you say, your voice weaker than you like to hear it.

He looks hurt but he doesn't stop you. "Did I fuck up?"

"You did too good, actually," you say, but his confusion doesn't fade. You sigh. "John, if I don't jack off soon, I'll fucking explode."

He pulls a face.

"Yeah, figured you'd say as much." You climb off the futon and hesitate. "This kind of... may need to be a regular thing, actually."

"Jacking off?"

"After you make a brilliant mess like this?" you say, gesturing at your throat. "Yeah, I kinda need to let some tension off from time to time."

"Oh." He blushes.

"Look, I'm not gonna ask you to join me." You shrug. "I mean, if you're ever morbidly curious, the offer's obviously open, but I'm not expecting you to do anything you're not comfortable with. I _am_ , however, asking you to appreciate that I, as a libido-owning individual, need left to my own devices sometimes."

"Ummm." He frowns and fidgets for a moment as he considers you. "I can't exactly tell you what to do so long as it doesn't involve me and you don't tell me details later."

"You realize it means cutting the things you like short?"

"Well." He tilts his head. "That kind of sucks, but it sounds like it'll suck even worse for you otherwise. So if this is the most cooperation you need from me to be okay without proper sexual intercourse, you should probably do it."

You try not to look relieved as you nod. "If you want to take off while I'm busy, I won't be offended," you say, which is mostly true but conveniently side-stepping that you'll be disappointed. "Or you can wait for me and we can watch another movie or some shit."

John straightens his shirt as he gets to his feet. "I should probably get cracking on homework anyway," he says with a sigh.

You nod and give him a soft good-bye kiss. "You can throw me on the mattress some other day and grab all the nonsexual cuddles you want."

He snorts, smirking at you. "I'll hold you to that."

And that's how it goes from then on. Some days you ignore the urge to abandon him, or things don't get heated enough to push you that direction in the first place, and cuddle with him for an hour or two at his pace. Other days you have to take leave. It's not always satisfying by yourself, but you just remember that a date with Rosie Palms is better than a fuck with a guy who yanks hair during oral, or who doesn't know how to apply lubricant properly, or who springs a weirdass fetish on you _without warning_ in the goddamn bedroom.

Besides, even if John _was_ willing to make an exception for you and try sex just to please his partner, it still wouldn't be a good lay; he's a clueless virgin minus the enthusiasm. He wouldn't know what to do, he wouldn't enjoy it even if he could tolerate it, and in the end that shit wouldn't be fun for you either.

Shit's kind of unconventional, but it works for both of you, so why the hell complain?

* * *

Despite your crap track record and the blatantly incompatible sex drives involved, your relationship with John is well on its way to being your second longest fling. It probably can't even be labeled a "fling" anymore. You're pretty sure John never considered it one to begin with.

When summer break rolls around, you suggest he move into the Strider apartment full-time instead of flying back to Washington. He laughs at first but thinks it over for the next week. You fight not to grin too openly when he agrees.

You go from not having John around enough to suddenly having more John than you know what to do with. Dave still has work, and is taking summer classes for whatever godawful reason, so he's not around to steal your boyfriend much. You have enough time to spend with John, for once, that there actually comes a point that the two of you share a room without making out in wild abandon. It's nice, actually, just sitting next to each other as you both quietly work on personal projects (or surf the web; whichever).

You worry a little that having John around almost twenty-four seven might make any unsatisfied cravings worse, but having him snuggled against your side every night only serves to convince you that you can put up with the celibate life for however long this relationship lasts.

The best nights are when you pop in a movie and proceed to ignore it over the next two hours as you trade spit and leave bruises on each other's throats. He's rough once he's into the swing of things. You don't understand how he's disgusted by sex yet A-OK with chewing on your neck for ten straight minutes, but you've never understood how straight or bi people work either.

You hate that you have to eventually pull away and abandon him on the futon for half an hour, but you'd hate it more if you didn't relieve the sexual tension somehow. (Especially when he's in a bite-y mood. Dear god.)

On the nights you leave him, you try to make up for it by tiring yourself out in the shower. By the time you're done, you can crawl back into bed with him and pull him close, spooning and snuggling until you pass out, with far less chance of an awkward boner. From the way he turns to putty in your arms, you're pretty sure it's a good deal for both of you.

* * *

You're not too many weeks away from your first anniversary when John announces that his father is planning to visit Texas.

"Since I haven't seen him since Easter break, you know?" he says, sitting against you while he fiddles with his phone.

You barely glance up from sewing a new smuppet -- you have to replenish your stock after your last video involved the destruction of half a dozen plushes. "He need hotel recommendations or anything?"

"Nah, we've got that crap taken care of." John clears his throat. "He wants to meet you though."

You almost stab your thumb with a needle but you keep a straight face. "I'm pretty sure there are better tourist traps around here to occupy his time."

"Yeah, we're probably going to a _bunch_ of museums and stuff." He nudges you. "You're still invited."

"Nah." You finish a stitch and move to the next. "I've already seen the bunch of museums and stuff, having lived here the past thirty years."

He fixes you with a glare. "Dirk."

You do him the favor of meeting his gaze. "John."

"I want you to meet the person who raised me."

"That sounds like just about the worst idea you've ever had," you say flatly.

He shoves your shoulder. "That's what you say every time you let me pick a movie."

"Not my fault you always manage to top yourself."

He scowls at you, then tilts his head and narrows his eyes. "Are you scared?"

The needle slips again and stabs your index finger; you're saved from bloodshed only by the heavy callouses on your hands. "Excuse me?"

He snorts. "You're totally scared to meet my dad."

"Just because I don't want to do it doesn't mean I'm scared, dipshit." You roll your eyes and set aside the half-finished puppet before you can manage to actually hurt yourself.

"He's really nice." He stuffs his phone back in his pocket. "Well, he's boring as hell, but he'll make you cookies anyway."

"Still not interested, bribery or no."

"It's not bribery, it's a fact." He pokes your arm. "A fact that I'm using to reassure you that he's not scary."

You facepalm. "John, for fuck's sake, I am not afraid of your father."

"So you'll stop acting like a douche and meet him?" he says with a triumphant grin.

You lounge back. "You should know by now that I am way too cool to meet parents."

"You are lame as fuck and also a giant chicken." He slumps against your shoulder, cuddling against you with a grin.

You frown. "Like hell."

"Fraidy-cat."

You side-eye him. "No."

"Pointy shade coward."

"Are you twenty or twelve?" you say. It's not often he makes you so uncomfortably aware of your age gap, but it's also not often he's such an immature little twerp.

He crosses his arms, still leaning on you. "Dunno. Are you a responsible adult or a nervous teenager?"

"You know damn well I'm neither."

He smirks. "Oh, duh, 'cos you're a baby."

You reach around his shoulders and catch him in a headlock. He lets out a startled "gack!" and squirms enough that you're not confident that he's okay with it; you loosen your hold just to be safe and he pries himself free.

He lets out a huff and flops against you. "Dirk."

You catch the remote and flip through channels. "Uh-huh?"

"You're a douche."

You glance down at him. "Nice of you to notice."

"And also a fucking chicken."

You relax in your seat, sliding an arm around his shoulders again but not tightening your hold just yet. "Yeah, maybe I'll just catch you again, leave you stuck with me for a good hour or so."

He blows a raspberry at you. "I'll stop calling you names if you agree to meet him," he says, not bothering to dodge away from your steadily increasing grip.

You take that as invitation to pull him closer against you. "That's still your biggest concern here?" you ask.

He grunts and wraps his arms around your waist, uncaring that you've already restrained him again. "You'll relent on the deathgrips on your own. It's the parent-boyfriend conference I still have to convince you on."

You fight off a frown. "It matters that damn much to you if I go?"

"Yes."

"It's going to be disappointing for all parties involved."

"I know."

You reach over to stroke at his hair. "If you promise to stop being a fucking brat for tonight, I'll go, okay?"

He beams. "Deal."

He cuddles against you and you lean down to kiss his forehead. True to his word, he brings the immature name-calling down to his standard levels for the rest of the evening, but you keep your arm hooked around him for the next hour all the same; you don't make idle threats.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was supposed to include the meeting with Dad Egbert, but then it got too long and now that's next chapter.


	9. Chapter 9

You manage to put off the meeting with John's father for as long as possible, citing all multitudes of bullshit schedule conflicts until John finally corners you into agreeing to something. In the end, you're set to grab lunch with the man a few hours before his flight home and drive him to the airport.

Despite his teasing, John's the one who's a nervous wreck the day of. He's ready to leave an hour early and takes to pacing the apartment as he waits down the clock. Just watching him makes you antsy. You grab a beer from the cupboard, let it sit in the freezer long enough to bring it just barely below room temperature, and crack it open; you need something to take the edge off.

John cringes as he catches sight of the booze. "Really, dude? It's not even eleven."

"So?" You take a swig. "It's one fucking bottle. I'm not planning to get wasted or anything. I'm responsible here."

"That is pretty much the exact opposite of how I'd describe you." John rubs at his forehead. "Hey, when you meet Dad, try not to swear as much, okay?"

You raise an eyebrow. "He doesn't know you fucking swear?"

" _As much_. Just... cool it on the F-bombs and shit." He fidgets, watching you out of the corner of his eye as he returns to pacing. "Maybe you could get ready instead of drinking?"

"I'm ready."

He freezes. "You're meeting him dressed like _that_?"

You scowl. "This is how I always dress."

"Exactly! And you're meeting my _dad_."

"Right." You take a large swallow of beer. "I'll just go put on my trusty dad-meeting suit, which I totally keep around for these sort of emergencies."

"Well, you could put on something _nicer_ and not sarcastic," he says with a frown.

"You ashamed to be seen with me?"

He rolls his eyes. "I go out in public with you all the time, asshat. I just want you to make a good first impression. Once he's met you and knows you're not a weirdo creep, you can go back to dressing like a weirdo creep."

"That's gonna be a problem, John," you say as you finish the beer. "I _am_ a weirdo creep."

John groans. "Dirk, he was already on edge when he heard you're thirty-five. I don't want him cutting my funding and dragging me back to Washington."

You snort in disgust. "Oh, for fuck's sake, I can pay your damn tuition if he's gonna be like that."

"What? No!"

"Why the hell not?"

John slaps a hand against his face. "Because you're missing the whole damn point which is that I don't want to get disowned!"

You set your empty beer bottle on the nearest flat surface. "And what was your intended dress code then?"

He looks you straight in the face. "No shades."

"What."

He reaches over and flattens your collar, smoothing it with his palms. "No dumbass shades. Or ironic shades. Whatever!"

"You're fuckin' serious."

"They make you stand out like a douche, Dirk! And maybe nix the baseball cap..." He pulls off your hat and gives your spiked back hair a long stare. He returns the hat. "You're Texan. You can get away with it."

"Anything else?" you say flatly. You try popping your collar back up, but instead he catches your hands and peels off your gloves. "Really?"

"Just for a few hours." He runs his much softer hands over yours and kisses at your uncovered palm until you relax. "Take off your shades?"

You sigh. "When we get there, okay?"

"Promise?"

You kiss him gently. "Promise."

He's satisfied with your word and doesn't make any further changes to your wardrobe. He's relatively less jittery for the rest of the morning, but he's fidgeting and bouncing in his seat on the ride over.

"Calm down," you say as you turn into a parking space at a pricy BBQ place.

"I'm calm!" he says, a whine in his tone.

"The hell you are." You turn off the car and make to get out.

"Ah-ah-ah!" John catches your sleeve and pulls you back. "You said!"

You refuse to frown as you relinquish your shades to him. He sticks them in the glovebox, looking as if a weight's hopped off his shoulders (and ever so conveniently moved to yours) as he jumps out of the car. You catch a glimpse of your reflection in the car window: you almost look like a normal guy. You shudder and lock the door.

The place isn't busy yet; there's just some white guy in nice clothes with a suitcase waiting outside the restaurant, but no sign of anyone who looks remotely related to John.

John throws his arm up in a wave and runs over. "Dad!"

The white guy glances up just in time to catch John in a one-armed hug.

Well then. Can't say you were expecting that. The guy's clean shaven, looks maybe ten years older than you, and, even up close, is about as white as they come. He looks more likely to be related to you than John.

John disentangles himself from his father's grasp and gestures at you. "Dad, this is my boyfriend Dirk. My boyfriend Dirk, this is my dad."

"Nice to finally meet you, Dirk," Mr. Egbert says and offers a hand. You reach for it, until you spot a suspicious shadow and yank your arm back.

Mr. Egbert smiles and holds his palm up in defeat, the buzzer in plain sight. "Well, I suppose John's pulled the basics on you often enough that you're wise to our ways."

John snorts. "Man, he's _never_ fallen for that one."

"Least I know where John picked it up now," you say, giving Mr. Egbert a decent berth just in case he's as good at hiding pies on his person as John is.

Mr. Egbert chuckles and pulls the buzzer off, offering you his now booby trap-free hand. He has a decent grip and you make a point to match it. He hasn't stopped smiling, but his eyes travel over you as he tries to sum you up. You hold his gaze and keep the poker face strong, even without your shades as an aid.

He nods and releases your hand. "Let's check if one of the hostesses has a table ready for us," he says, grabbing his suitcase and heading for the door.

You hang back enough you can mutter to John, "You didn't mention you're fucking adopted," without being overheard.

"I'm what?" John stares up at you with wide, innocent eyes for long enough that you almost buy his act. He breaks into laughter. "Didn't think it mattered."

You run out of privacy room as Mr. Egbert holds the door open and doesn't budge until you're both inside the building. You're seated within seconds and mercifully spared small talk for a little while longer as your companions study the menu.

You really don't care what this guy thinks of you, but John keeps shooting you nervous glances and _that_ gets you motivated to sit up straight and make a decent impression.

"So, Dirk," Mr. Egbert says after orders are placed, "what do you do for a living?"

"Internet pornography."

John chokes on his Dr. Pepper.

Mr. Egbert snorts and breaks into a chuckle. "I see where Dave gets his humor."

John shoots you a quick glare that communicates plain as day, "Correct him and I won't kiss you for a week. Possibly because I'll be back in Washington against my will."

"Well," you shrug, "can't take all the credit, with TV and Xbox to refine his understanding of vulgarity."

Mr. Egbert eyes John. "Ah, can't say I don't relate there."

"You never got me an Xbox," John mutters.

"You got into enough trouble on the computer," Mr. Egbert says with a smile. "Remember that one multi-player game, when you were thirteen or so?"

John leans back. "Pff, I _totally_ had that under control."

Just like that, the Egberts sweep up the conversation to the point you'd have to interrupt to get a word in edgewise -- and you're not interested enough in participating to go to those kind of lengths. Sometimes Mr. Egbert slips in a question for you, but John's taken over again within a few sentences. You suspect John's doing it on purpose, dodging any chances for you to give off creep vibes. You're not sure if you're thankful or offended.

It's not until you're back on the road that Mr. Egbert corners you into consistent smalltalk. He's seated in the front with you while John's stuck in the backseat -- also known as the conversation exile zone, where no man can consistently speak loud enough for the front passengers to hear him.

Mostly Mr. Egbert is fascinated by the route you're taking and asks about your time in Houston: Were you born here? Did you ever live somewhere else? How are the winters? The only moment he hesitates is when he asks about your education.

"Didn't even finish high school," you say with a shrug.

"Oh?" he says, mouth twitching into a frown.

Normally you wouldn't feel the need to expand on that, but you sense that leaving your motivations up for interpretation won't get you far with him. "Had a little brother to look after," you mutter.

His expression softens and he glances back at John. "You must be very proud of Dave, Dirk."

John saves you from trying to answer that curveball. He groans. "Daaad, don't get corny in front of my boyfriend!"

Mr. Egbert gives you a wry smile. "That's half of a father's job description, isn't it?"

"What's the other half?" you ask. "Cracking out embarrassing baby photos?"

"I could bring one of John's albums next time I'm in town."

"DAD, NO!"

You laugh alongside Mr. Egbert while John flops back in his seat with a huff.

When you reach the airport, John hops out as soon as you pull up to the curb. You stay in the car with your hazards blinking -- there's a time limit on how long you can park, but you shouldn't surpass it -- as John helps his father with his luggage and finding the best entrance for his airline. They hug for a long moment outside the doors, then split ways.

John waves and waits until his father has disappeared into a crowd before he turns back for the car. He jumps into the passenger seat and beams at you.

You snap your fingers and hold a hand out expectantly. He rolls his eyes, but the grin doesn't fade. He fetches your shades from the glove compartment and sets them in your hand. Less than a second later, they're back on your face, as they should be.

He catches your collar and pops it up for you before wrapping his arms around the back of your neck. "You did better than I thought you would back there."

"And what the fuck did you think I'd do?"

"Be a douche. Rap a lot. Throw a puppet at 'im."

"Dude, course I wouldn't do that. Shit's barely ironic without the shades." You tousle his hair. "Now fork up the gloves."

"Threw 'em out."

" _What_?"

He cracks up, reaching into his pocket to nab the gloves before sliding them over your hands. "Man, you really think I'd do that?"

"You are a little shit sometimes."

He climbs halfway into your lap. "Only in harmless ways. Pranks aren't fun if they have permanent consequences." He looks you over, grinning from ear to ear.

You raise an eyebrow. "What?"

"Nothing." He shrugs. "Just happy you're back to normal."

You throw an arm around his shoulders and pull him in close to stick your tongue down his throat. You're interrupted as he bursts into laughter, but as soon as he calms he re-initiates the deep kiss, wrapping tight around you. He doesn't let go for at least five minutes and you're sure as hell not going to push him away.

He wriggles back into his seat. "Let's get back to the futon. My butt's gonna fall asleep in here."

You snort and start the ignition. Airport police would probably chase you off if your car isn't gone soon anyway. "Fair enough, but we're picking up where we left off."

"When do we not?" he says with a smirk.

You drive in silence, with John staring out the window with a content smile and you running every yellow light you come across because it's a long enough drive to get anywhere in this city as it is. You can't quite call it a comfortable silence; you're not relaxed at the wheel, which is unusual. Something's been nagging at the back of your mind for the past hour.

You're a block away from home when you finally place what's bothering you. "John?"

"Yeah?"

"What the fuck was your dad's name?"

* * *

Less than a week later, you get an unexpected package in the mail from Washington. You'd assume someone at the post office fucked up and swapped John's name out for yours on the recipient label, but it doesn't look tampered with.

The box is crammed full of baked goods -- and also a spring snake you easily dodge when you flip open the lid. A note lies on top of all the plastic wrap-covered cookies and cupcakes.

_Dirk,_

_My son can be unconventional at times but I trust his good judgment and therefore I trust in you to take care of him. I wish you both the best._

_PS: I googled your name. Please don't involve John in your line of work._

You destroy the note before John can find it.

When he catches sight of the package a couple hours later, he just sighs loudly and shakes his head. "Warned you he'd make you cookies."


	10. Chapter 10

John doesn't go back to the dorms when classes start up. He says it's because your apartment's nicer and costs him less, but you think he's grown accustomed to waking next to you, same as you're used to him curled against your side in the mornings. The commute is a pain in the ass, but Dave's already managed it.

Dave still isn't home much lately. John's made enough references that you've gathered they see each other on campus and in a couple of Gen Ed. classes, but even he hasn't bumped into Dave in the apartment that often. Your bro seems to stop by to crash for a few hours, grab a mouthful of food, and march right back to whatever trouble he's been up to.

So long as you don't get any phone calls from the police asking you to pick up your publicly intoxicated little brother, you don't care. Classes, work, and an awesome social life requires a fuckton of hours. It's no problem if he doesn't want to leave any time for family. Good for him, actually.

You settle into a new schedule with your roommates: You work on your videos while John's in class, you pull John into your lap as soon as he's home and barely disentangle yourselves from the heavy makeouts, and you exchange silent nods with Dave whenever you cross paths.

You know Dave's grown from teenager to proper adult when you check the mailbox one evening half-way through fall semester and find he's getting junkmail from credit card companies, insurance companies, and, of all things, a handful of universities. Christ, did they miss the memo that he's already in school? What are they trying to recruit him for so late in the game? You toss the envelopes on his bed for him to shred at his leisure.

For the first time in a long while, Dave isn't out the door first thing the next morning. You assume he's sleeping in after a test or something, until he slips out of his room almost as soon as John's left for campus.

He pauses in the doorway, leaning his shoulder against the frame, and keeps his face aimed towards you. You pretend not to notice, pulling up a project on your computer.

"Bro."

You grunt. "Yeah?"

"We need to talk," he says, his tone odd. You can't actually place it.

You deign to glance his direction. "It serious?"

"Probably."

"Then google it."

"I got accepted into grad school." He says it in the same way one might announce they grabbed fast food on the way home -- as if it's an accomplishment so commonplace that you only need to know it happened so as not to make supper.

You're still a moment, then take both hands away from the computer as you turn to face him. "You're still a junior."

He shrugs. "I took heavy semesters and summer classes. I graduate in December."

You study him, making sure he's not bullshitting you. "Where?"

"East coast. I'm moving in January." He cocks his head. "You want to help with moving costs, that'd be cool, but if not, I'll start saving up."

"And how much is grad school going to cost?"

"Nothing. I got a fellowship." He snorts. "They're fucking paying me to go."

"They're _paying_ you to get a master's?" you say, tone flat.

Dave shifts uncomfortably. "Doctorate."

...

...

...

You're speechless. You are actually fucking speechless. A doctorate. Someone is not just allowing but _paying_ Dave to earn a goddamn _doctorate_. Your little bro has _never_ taken you this off-guard. _Dr. Dave Strider_? Is he even fucking _serious_?

"The _fuck_ are you studying?" you manage, an embarrassing splutter in your voice.

He sticks his hands in his pockets. "Dead shit. Dinosaurs. That sorta crap." He frowns. "Paleontology." He shrugs and heads for the front door. "Just thought you should know," he says before leaving you alone in the apartment to digest your shock.

There is no way in hell you can concentrate on work today.

You shove the computer chair back and stumble to the futon, collapsing on it and staring at the ceiling. You knew Dave was leaving sometime in the near future, but you thought there was another year, thought he'd stay closer, thought he'd be getting a _job_ , not a fucking _doctorate_.

All this damn time, he wasn't being indifferent and chill as he kept his school life to himself. He was fucking hiding it, because he knew a science degree wasn't cool by any definition, no matter how far he stretched the irony. (Well, it could be funny that he's earning a B.S., but the humor dries up at the thought that he's following it with an M.S. and a goddamn doctorate.)

You should have known better than to assume he was just learning to keep his ironic accomplishments to himself. If his major was chosen ironically, he would have bragged. He would have left his fucking homework lying around for you to find, he would have found ways to shove it in your face, he would have let you know just how cool he thought he was being...

But he hid it.

And you're an idiot for not realizing what that meant sooner.

* * *

"Dude, how did you miss that shit?" John asks without even glancing up from his Chinese food. "He's been interning at the museum for like two fucking years."

You scowl. " _The_ museum, as if there's only one in a city of two million."

John rolls his eyes. "The museum with the fucking fossils, dumbass. Which museum did you think he was interning at all this time?"

You shrug and busy yourself with your fried rice in hopes he doesn't push further. You didn't even realize Dave's job was an internship instead of a proper job. You wonder if it paid or if it was just for school credit.

"Man, good thing he got accepted to his first pick though," John mumbles through another bite of orange chicken. "It took him and his girlfriend like a _month_ to decide on a grad school they both liked."

You glance up. "Girlfriend?"

"Yeah, man, he's..." He falters, frowning at you. "He's been dating a girl from the Law department since freshman year. She graduated in spring."

"Oh," is all you say.

He sets his food down. "Dirk, do you know... _anything_ about Dave?"

"What's to know?"

He lowers his gaze. After a moment of silence, he murmurs, "Guess you really aren't his dad."

Of course you fucking aren't. You know that better than anyone and you've been telling him that from the get-go. Even so, coming from John, that stings somehow.

* * *

Dave doesn't bother walking for graduation. He says he's got no one to impress and those caps look dumb anyway. You can't say you were looking forward to two hours of dicking around on your phone as you wait for your kid to have his five seconds of fame on stage. All the same, you check the college website for the winter commencement program and find his name.

The fucker's graduating with honors. _Highest_ honors.

You don't even know what to do with this. You grab a birthday card meant for an aunt at Hallmark and write "good job, bro" in the margins of the corny poem printed within before tossing it into his room while he's out. What else can you do? He's the first Strider to survive college and you didn't even graduate high school. This successful education shit is new and uncomfortably unironic and you never thought you'd have to prepare for it.

He doesn't ask you to do anything. He borrows your credit card to pay for airfare and his apartment deposit, but beyond the financial snags he handles everything on his own. You glance in his room late in December: all his crap is packed into boxes, ready to ship to his new place. He gives you permission to toss or sell anything he leaves behind.

You don't ask where he'll be getting furniture or how much his girlfriend is chipping in. If John hadn't mentioned her, you still wouldn't know about the girlfriend.

In too little time, you're at the airport and John's hugging Dave good-bye, demanding texts and IMs as soon as he's on the ground again. You exchange a fistbump and a nod with your little bro before he grabs his suitcase and heads for the security checkpoint. He doesn't look back.

It's at that moment you realize you're not sure if you'll ever see him again.

You're quiet on the drive home and John lets you have your silence. He doesn't even say anything when you unlock the apartment, let him in, and head for the stairs to the roof instead of following him.

You have no sparring partner and you're really not in the mood to train by yourself, so you just sit against the AC unit and stare at the cityscape, lost in thought. It's at least two hours before John comes to find you. He settles next to you without a word, just resting his head on your shoulder.

After a long moment of silence, you voice the words that have been running through your head all evening. "I fucked up."

He catches your hand and squeezes it. "Yep."

You snort. "Well, don't hold back or anything. Tell me what you _really_ think, John."

"When have I done otherwise?" He kisses your cheek. "You're the one who holes up and pretends he doesn't have emotions. Or, prooobably more relevant right now, regrets."

Part of you wants to shove him away and storm downstairs before this conversation can get any more vulnerable. The other part reminds you that that kind of evasive behavior is how you're in this fucking mess to begin with. "I should've just let his mom put him up for adoption," you mutter.

He cringes. "Dirk..."

"I had no damn business raising that kid," you continue before he can interrupt. "I just... didn't want him going to a couple of fucking strangers." You glare at the ground. "I'm a selfish dickhead like that."

"And a control freak."

You scowl. "Great, you noticed."

"What?" He quirks an eyebrow. "Was that supposed to be a fucking secret?"

"Nah." You sigh. "Just another item on the list of reasons why I'll probably never hear from my little brother slash genetic son again."

John's still a moment, then reaches up and slides your shades off, setting them aside. (He does that every so often. The only place you stop him anymore is in public.) He climbs onto your lap and cups your face for a long, gentle kiss. He smiles at you afterwards, keeping eye contact.

"When we were younger," he murmurs, "Dave used to tell me all about how he had the coolest fucking big brother in the world."

"And when'd he change his mind?"

"Sixteen, probably." He nuzzles against your cheek. "But I think he still looks up to you, dude. And I can't really blame him."

You wrap your arms around his shoulders. "Thought you didn't think I was cool."

"Yeah, you aren't." He smirks and runs a hand through your hair. "But you took in a kid you could have abandoned and you kept a roof over his head and you made a successful career, all while a single parent and a teenager. That's not cool, but it's still a lot to fucking look up to."

You're startled silent for a moment; those are not the kinds of compliments you're used to getting. "Doesn't change the fact I was shit family."

He sighs and tilts his head one way, then the other. "Well, maybe you were still right to keep him, even if you sucked at being a dad. Maybe if Dave had gone to a better qualified couple, he'd be unhappy and inheriting his adopted-dad's pig farm right about now."

"Pig farm," you repeat flatly.

He grins. "Yep. And they'd have named him Billy-Bob and made him marry his cousin Annabelle at age sixteen."

You try not to laugh, you really do, but maybe you need to laugh or something because you sure as hell can't stop yourself.

He chuckles with you. "Dirk, you just sent Dave off to be a fucking dinosaur scientist and you're worried he would've been better off with another family?"

"You saying you're not happy being adopted?"

"My dad is awesome and I would never trade him for whoever my genetic parents were." He pokes your cheek. "But I did not end up on a pig farm, unlike Dave, who totally would because that is just his luck."

"I still could've done better for him."

He rolls his eyes. "Fucking duh. Not much you can do about that now, dumbass, other than try harder in the future and stuff."

"Provided he even gives me the chance," you mutter. You sure as hell don't deserve it.

John looks thoughtful as he strokes your jaw. "He is my best bro. There is no way in hell I am letting him get away with not visiting me. Also," he kisses you, "you have a fucking phone."

"Mm." For once, you're the one pressing your face against his shoulder. He hugs your head with one arm and rubs your shoulders with the other.

Under normal circumstances you'd never allow him to coddle you. Right now, you can't bring yourself to care. You fucking need this.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No Homestuck fic is complete without Strider angst. (That's my excuse anyway. This chapter wasn't planned, but it sure seemed inevitable.)


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have no excuse for taking so long to update. (Okay, my excuse is I stressed myself out over making sure I handled certain elements of this chapter tastefully. I'm still nervous about a certain moment.) Anyway, have a slightly longer chapter with some relatively light content to make up for the last one.

April 13th has never gone by so slowly. It should be a fucking crime for schools to not give free absences on birthdays, especially when it comes to the big twenty-first. If John wasn't so nervous about his grades, you'd have told him to skip anyway.

You flashstep to the door as soon as you hear his key fumble in the lock. He's barely taken a step into the apartment before you've snatched him off his feet. He lets out a startled yelp but it turns to a laugh.

You press your forehead against his. "You're late, asshole."

He snorts. "Is that any way to greet your boyfriend on his birthday?"

"Nah." You walk him over to the futon and drop him onto it, leaning over him. "This is." You kiss him, settling in against him as you up the intensity.

He melts against you, eyes closed. "I just meant that 'happy birthday' is a little more traditional, jackass," he says when you stray from his lips to work at his jaw.

You smirk, making sure to focus on the areas he likes best. You nudge him away whenever he tries to return the favor -- like hell you're letting him do any of the work on his birthday.

After a while you sneak a glimpse at your phone to check the time, because you're a romantic fucker like that. "John," you murmur, keeping your lips against his skin, "we oughta head out."

He groans. "But I only just got back. And this is good."

"Of course it fucking is." You nuzzle at his throat. "But we can do this whenever. You only get one shot at a twenty-first birthday drink."

"Sounds overrated." He wraps his arms around your head, holding you against him.

You laugh. "We'll pick up where we left off when we get back, okay?"

He loosens his hold. "And we'll marathon movies?"

"At the same time as sucking face?" You smirk. "You better fucking believe we will." You catch his wrists and pull him onto his feet.

It doesn't take more coaxing to get him out the door. You're not gonna risk taking the car, but you're in no mood for The Taxi Experience: Now With Extra Honking either, so you just walk him to a decent bar five blocks over. It's dark and small, but also just the right mix of divey and classy.

John gazes around with curiosity, taking in the neon beer logos on the walls and the specials written in chalk behind the bar. You lead him to a two-person table, complete with uncomfortable bar stools, and tap him with a menu when he's not paying attention.

"So what should I try?" he asks after only a glance at the exhaustive drink list.

"Doesn't matter. Go for whatever you're curious about. Just don't get a beer."

"Why not?" he says, but his gaze is already skipping the beer section.

"Because I've served you better ones at home. Bars chill their shit and dilute the taste." You nod to the waiter who stops by your table just as you finish your blatant insult to his place of employment. You give approximately zero fucks that he probably overheard.

You order a pizza to get started as John's pulls out his wallet to show off his newly relevant driver's license. He orders an appletini and you facepalm.

He frowns at you. "What?"

"Nothing," you say before ordering a screwdriver. It's basic, but the last thing you need tonight is to get drunk and you know exactly where you stand with vodka.

As the server leaves, John looks to you with almost a pout. "You said go for whatever!"

"So you went with a girly drink? D'you know how much alcohol goes into those things?"

"Dave said they're good!" John's frown lessens. "I guess he'd be biased though."

"You asked Dave for recs and he told you to try an _appletini_?"

He snorts. "You don't know about Dave's love of all things liquid apple?"

Your mouth twitches as you fight off a scowl. "It'd be kinda hard to miss all the juice cartons he left lying around the apartment, even for me," you say, keeping your voice even.

(Never mind that you _didn't_ notice. You just found empty bottles squirreled away in Dave's closet after he moved out. Some of that shit had expiration dates from at least five years ago. It's just a theory, but you highly suspect that maybe, just maybe, Dave likes AJ and you were just too fucking self-absorbed throughout his entire childhood to realize that's why juice disappeared so fast.)

John drops his gaze. "Sorry," he murmurs.

You shrug. "Hey, whatever. This ain't a bad place to learn how you react to the strong stuff. Better than at a frat party without your boyfriend around to watch your back."

You're spared further awkwardness as your drinks are on the table in no time. John splutters a little at his first sip but gives you a thumbs up. You roll your eyes and work on your own drink.

John must find appletinis palatable enough, as finishes his first glass by the time the pizza arrives. You order him a refill on automatic, raising your half-finished glass in a toast as soon as he has liquid to match. The food is greasy and messy and fucking perfect aside from the number of napkins needed to spare your fingers from turning orange.

"Best thing about bars is how cheapass the food can be," you say as you pull over another slice. The cheese practically oozes off the sides and you scoop it back on the crust. "Remember that if you're ever low on cash: bars make their money on overpriced booze."

"Why the fuck are _you_ worried about where to find cheap meals, Mr. Pornlord?" John points an accusatory piece of crust at you before popping it in his mouth.

"Less money spent on food means more money spent on booze. Learn basic math, Egbert."

"Maybe my classes would be easier then, huh?" he mumbles around his glass, downing the rest of it. He shudders as he sets it back on the table. "Speaking of numbers, can I get another?"

You nudge his arm. "Yes, you can get another, dumbass. Go crazy."

By the time he's finished his third drink and ordered a fourth, you're starting to wonder if you should have put down ground rules. "You're gonna get drunk, John," you say, picking off a pepperoni from the last slice of pizza neither of you seem keen to actually eat.

"No, 'm not."

"You already sound tipsy."

He points at you. "Your _face_ already sounds _stupid_."

You shake your head, polishing off your second drink to John's fourth. The little asshole manages to order a fifth before you nab the check and is especially stubborn about not drinking the ice water you order for him. You're not even buzzed, but it's a miracle he doesn't stumble when he stands.

You keep an arm wrapped around his shoulders when you're back on the streets and he's too drunk to take offense at being coddled as you walk him back to the apartment. At least he's a cheerful enough drunk, if a stupid one. He laughs at nothing and headbutts your shoulder. You're still relieved when you're able to drop him onto the futon.

You sit next to him. "You rather have some of the leftover cake your dad sent or just start sleeping this off?"

He grunts, struggling to sit up. "We're supposed to go back to messy makeouts."

"Now? You're drunk off your ass, kid."

He tugs at your sleeve. "Back to kissing!"

"A'right, fine." You move in.

"And movies."

You pause inches from his neck and sigh. "What do you want?"

"Ghostbusters!"

You roll your eyes even as you go set up the Blu-ray player. "Sure, why not? Great film for makeouts, with all the demonic possession and giant marshmallow men."

You're expecting to make the first move when you flop next to him again as the movie starts. Instead he jumps you, throwing his arms around your shoulders and going for your throat. He carelessly jams his knee into you, missing a groinshot by four inches up. You cringe on instinct, but he's too busy chewing on your neck to notice.

You massage at his back. "Hey, easy there," you murmur, voice breathy.

He garbles something against your skin but forgets to remove his teeth first. He slows his ferocity, though. His knee slips down, still pressed against you, and you're so used to him avoiding your crotch area as if it might burn him that you're unprepared when his leg brushes directly against it and rests there.

You moan as the pressure settles. This is the closest he's ever come to touching you and it feels amazing. Completely wrong, but amazing.

"John..." Part of you wants to stop there, hates what you're about to say, but that part of you can go die in a fire. " _Move_ your goddamn _leg_."

He grunts, glancing down. His face turns red and he yanks his knee back with an embarrassed yelp.

You relax once the pressure's gone, but the relief doesn't last long. Your body's already gotten the wrong idea. You make to get up. "I gotta... detour to the bathroom a minute... or ten." 

He launches after you, grabbing your arm. "No no no, don't go!"

"I gotta, dumbass. You don't even know what you just did to my libido."

"Then... what if... what if we..." John swallows, hesitates, then looks you straight in the eyes with a determined expression. "What if we fuck?"

" _What_?"

"We can have... we can have sexual intercourse. That way you can stay."

You stare at him. You can barely even process what the fuck he just proposed, let alone formulate a reply. You shake your head. "Say that when you're sober and I'll think about it."

He tugs your sleeve. "But I said it's okay! Just don't go."

"John, you can't handle brushing your knee against my fully clothed dick. You ain't ready to lose your virginity."

He whines and clings to you. Forget any previous claims: John's fucking awful when he's drunk.

You groan. "If we call it quits on the makeouts, I'll stay, okay?"

He nods and leans into your shoulder. You just lie back against a pillow and try to think of the least sexy images you can conjure to kill the arousal.

You're both quiet for a while. "Are you mad at me?" John says.

"I'm gettin' kinda exasperated here, but no, I'm not angry."

He presses his forehead against your neck. "But you never wished me happy birthday."

You pet the back of his head. "Because it's cheesy and you already know the sentiment's there."

"How would I know that?"

"You could try paying attention to context and-" You shake your head. "I'm trying to talk logic to a drunk." You kiss him on the cheek. "Happy birthday, John. You idiot."

He relaxes. "Hey, Dirk?" he murmurs, staring into space.

You glance over. "Hey, what?"

"You ever think about having kids?"

You grimace. " _Fuck_ no."

"Why not?"

"Because I don't fucking want any and I already spent the last twenty-one years fucking up with the one I've already got."

"Oh." John hums. "You'd probably do better this time."

You groan. "John, we don't have sex for your sake and we don't have kids for my sake. Them's the rules."

"We can have sex."

You shove him. "No, we damn well can't, dipshit, not when you're fucking drunk. Go to sleep."

"But the movie's not over yet!"

You sigh and pull him over so he's lying on your chest and can stare at the screen from the safety of your shoulder. You cannot fucking believe he can be this drunk yet this unable to fall asleep, but he finally goes limp half an hour into the next DVD. You fall asleep to Nic Cage stealing the Declaration of Independence playing in the background, your drunk-off-his-ass boyfriend acting as your blanket.

* * *

It has never been more pointless to wake before John. You can't fucking move without dislodging him, but you want to let him sleep in as long as possible, after how much he drank. When he wakes an hour later, his brow furrows in pain before his eyelids so much as twitch. He lets out a tiny groan to signal he's fully transitioned into hangover mode.

You slide him off you, settling him against the pillows, and head for the kitchen with as little noise as possible, closing the blinds as you go. You return to John's side with a bottle of water, two ibuprofen, and a piece of bread. You nudge him.

"Dirk?" he says, voice weak and groggy.

"Welcome to your first hangover, kid." You push the water and pills at him. "Drink up."

"It hurts."

"Yeah, I know." You nudge him again and he finally sits up enough you trust him to swallow without choking. "Least you're not vomiting."

"Mm," he mumbles around a gulp of water. You pass him the bread next. He makes a face at it but trusts that you know what's best and nibbles at it.

"So you remember everything okay, or did you blackout?"

He pauses to consider it. "I think..." His face burns red and he glances away. "I think I remember it all."

You nod. You're a little surprised that you don't feel much disappointment at the confirmation that his drunken attempts at giving consent were bullshit.

"Dirk?" he says, still blushing.

"Yeah?"

He nibbles on the bread, not meeting your gaze. "You're the best goddamn boyfriend."

"You're damn right I am." You wrap an arm around his shoulders. "Last night was just common sense though."

He nods, relaxing against you even as he says, "Oww," under his breath.

You wait for him to finish his water before addressing the other hungover elephant in the room. "Hey, John?"

"Hey, yeah?"

"Please tell me it was just the alcohol talking and you're not actually set on having kids."

He frowns as he takes another long sip of water. "If you can live without sex, I can live without kids." He smirks. "Besides, no adoption agency in their right mind would ever give you custody of a child."

You lightly shove him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I think I'll be winding this story down soon, as I've only got one more obstacle I want these dorks to tackle. After that, I'm mostly out of ideas, so it'll probably be time to wrap it up, tie any leftover loose ends, and find a good stopping point. Always both exciting and kinda sad to realize I'm almost finished with a project.


	12. Chapter 12

You don't know how you'd survive the empty apartment without John around.

It's not so bad at first. You barely even notice the difference for the first few months that Dave's gone; he hadn't exactly hung around much once college hit. Hell, it's not like the two of you ever interacted that often before college either. After he got out of diapers, you mostly just... let him take care of himself.

Who the fuck are you kidding? You ignored him for twenty years and your boyfriend knows him better than you ever did. Shit, that's some grade A parenting, right there. Why would he ever have dropped contact with you?

Still, you can distract yourself and just... forget that Dave's gone, for the most part. The only time it gets to you is when you glance in Dave's empty room. You should be fucking used to the sight by now, but even so you feel a sinking sensation in your chest -- the same sensation you get whenever you experience a heavy bout of Failure that no one must ever know about.

Shit only gets intolerable once summer vacation rolls around and John wants to visit family. He doesn't invite you, probably because you both know you'd hate it even on the off-chance you agreed to go. You don't care. Obviously you can't expect him to just ignore his family (like you do), so even more obviously you don't resent him when he flies off to Washington for a week or two.

You don't have to resent him to hate every goddamn minute of his absence.

Isolation hits _hard_ and you're humiliated to admit that even to yourself. It's nothing to do with a lack of social interaction. It's just that you have no one to leave out leftovers for. If you want to pass out early, you don't have to worry that your boyfriend or your brother will be coming home after midnight. You can't wait around for someone else to go out and ask them to grab more milk on the way back.

It's just uncomfortable to have your expectations so thoroughly fucked with. Any bumps in the other room are just the water pipes or your imagination. They're not John. And they're not Dave. They haven't been Dave in half a year.

Sometimes you still expect to hear rap music blaring from Dave's room as if it's six years ago.

You pull out your phone. You haven't exchanged one word with him since he left, but it's going to kill you if you don't... something.

\-- timaeusTestified [TT] began pestering turntechGodhead [TG] at 20:11 --

TT: Hey.   
TG: hey   
TT: How's shit?   
TG: shits cool   
TG: you need something   
TT: Nah.   
TT: Just making sure you're still alive.   
TG: yeah man   
TG: havent managed to accidentally bring any giant cretaceous carnivores back to life yet   
TT: Cool.   
TG: ikr gold star to me   
TT: Keep that up, I guess.

Dear fucking lord, you have no idea what you're doing.

How do you talk to this kid? You never talked. You exchanged cool nods and badass sword blows. You made fun of movies together sometimes. None of that translates into staying in contact after he moves out of state. You don't know how to smalltalk or emote. You don't know how to be a brother, let alone a dad.

You set your phone aside before you can say something dumb but Dave's stopped responding anyway. That's how relevant you are to his life now: just a distant relative to exchange a "hey, how are you?" with every so often. At least he doesn't hate you.

The instant John gets home at the end of the week, you snatch him into your arms, carry him to the futon, and hold him against your chest. You don't even bother with slobbering over each other for once. You just keep your arms wrapped around him, sometimes rubbing at his back, sometimes stroking his hair, always taking comfort in his warmth.

"Dirk?" he says after a while.

You grunt.

"What're you even doing?"

"Nothing. What's it look like?"

He chuckles, planting a kiss to your jaw. "I missed you too, dickhead."

* * *

School returns with a vengeance, snatching John's time and presence from your greedy arms faster than any previous semesters. It's barely one week in and senior year already fucking blows.

As John spends longer hours on campus, you step up the work on your websites. You slacked off too much during summer, taking advantage of John's free time while it lasted, and you have a shitton to catch up on now if you don't want your ad revenue to dwindle.

Constructing puppets and recording new videos gives you a good distraction anyway. You barely even notice that the apartment is empty (or that the jug of apple juice in the fridge has been sitting untouched for two months because you had never taken note of who actually drank it before). Who's absolutely not stewing over a sudden lack of roommates? Sure as hell not the guy making five new puppet porns a day.

John's always home before the anxiety from isolation can settle anyway. He kisses you in greeting, you throw some dinner together, then you both settle on the couch with your laptops, leaning your back against his and vice versa as you work mostly in silence. You crack a joke about the latest media scandal, he tells you a pun from Tumblr so wretched that you elbow him, and you both stop procrastinating for another ten minutes.

He glances over your shoulder once, makes a face just short of "about to hurl," and snaps his gaze back to his own monitor, blushing badly. Fucking idiot. You turn enough to kiss the back of his head. He leans backwards to nuzzle your neck.

With that steady interaction, you're placated until he leaves again the next morning. It's not an ideal routine, but it's not bad. Until midterms hit.

You wake in the middle of the night and instinctively fumble for John's warmth, finding only cold sheets. He must be in the bathroom, you assume in your half-asleep state. You wait for him. And wait. And you're kinda starting to wake up a little more in the amount of time it's taking him to come back to bed. You open your eyes and raise your head.

John's sitting in a corner of the room, using his laptop monitor as his only source of light as he types. He stops every now and then, scowling at the screen with a furrowed brow, before finally pulling over a huge textbook and flipping it open.

"John?" you grumble.

He starts and raises his head, the shadows landing eerily on his face in the light of the computer.

"The fuck are you doing?" You pat his pillow. "Get your ass back here before the sun rises."

He shakes his head, his gaze already returning to the blinding light of the laptop. "I have to finish this paper."

You yawn. "So do it tomorrow."

"It's _due_ tomorrow!"

"Then take a fuckin' sickday."

"That's not how it _works_!" he shouts, his voice growing tight as he speaks too fast. "I have to submit this _online_ with five more pages in the next six hours or I'm out twenty-five percent of my grade!"

You massage your temple. You have never been more grateful that Dave made sure you skipped the whole "getting an education" thing, if it causes this much bullshit stress over goddamn nothing. "John. Fucking breathe."

"I am!"

"No, you're clearly fucking not." You climb out of bed and settle on the floor next to him. "Deep breaths, kid. In through the nose, out through the mouth."

"Dirk, I haven't even finished reading the last two chapters-"

You set a hand over his mouth. "You can spare thirty seconds. Just breathe with me. C'mon." You breathe in through your nose a good six seconds, making sure he follows suit. You remove your hand so he can breath out with you for ten seconds. You repeat the process until he looks less on the verge of hyperventilating. You pet his hair. "You okay?"

He nods.

"You coming back to bed?"

He winces. "I _can't_. If I don't submit this on time, I'm fucked."

You resist rolling your eyes. "What, exactly, is the worst that can happen here if you don't do this, kid?"

"I fail the class, I get put on academic probation, I can't graduate, and the last three fucking years of my life will be meaningless and I'll never get a job and-"

He's talking too fast again. You catch his shoulder and squeeze it. "Breathe."

"Everyone's gonna think I'm an idiot!"

"Everyone who matters already _knows_ you're an idiot and doesn't care." You cup his face and press your forehead against his. "I said _breathe_."

He takes a shaky breath and you have to breathe with him again to get him back on track. In for six seconds, out for ten. You watch the tension ebbing away from his features.

"In the grand scheme of things, none of that fucking matters, okay?" you whisper, relieved he's continuing the breathing on his own. "Passing this class doesn't matter, getting a piece of paper with your name and major on it doesn't matter, looking booksmart for other people _doesn't matter_. Got it?"

He glances down. "I want to graduate," he says, voice small.

You frown but kiss the tip of his mouth. "Then do that. Just don't be stupid over a grade, John."

He nods, leaning against you. You'd let him stay that way for the rest of the night if he needed it. Instead he nuzzles your shoulder after a few minutes and straightens. "Thanks," he murmurs, adjusting his laptop. "Sorry for waking you."

You pat his back before leaving him to it. Your head hasn't even hit the pillow before you hear more typing. At least it sounds less frantic than before.

It's hard to get back to sleep. Noise you can deal with, but you can't remember the last time you shared a roof with John but not a bed. The missing warmth keeps nagging at your mind, jolting you out of sleep.

It's barely a small comfort when you later hear he finished the paper on time with a B-.

It's not an isolated incident either. The longer the semester wears on, the more often you wake without John tucked against you. Your heart starts skipping a beat every time you reach out and can't find him. You don't calm as much as you should when you spot him studying in the corner again.

Everything's fine. It's not about you. You try to remind yourself that this has _nothing to do with you_ , but dear fucking god you don't know what you'll do if you can't wake to him snuggled against you anymore. The apartment's already too quiet.

You're not afraid -- Striders don't _do_ fear -- but a weight keeps settling in your stomach at the thought John might be slipping away and one day you're gonna wake to find you've lost him just like you drove off your brother.

* * *

After John stumbles home on the last day of finals, you give him a deep congratulatory kiss then drag him straight to bed. Within minutes he's asleep in your arms, too tired to even bother slipping off his glasses. He doesn't wake for fourteen solid hours.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Heeeeeeeey, guess who wrote too many words and had to split a chapter in two again? On the plus side, that means the next chapter is almost done and should definitely be posted within a week, barring my computer exploding or something similarly drastic.


	13. Chapter 13

Spring semester is even worse, because of course it fucking is. It's John's final round of classes and he's got a full schedule on his plate if he wants to graduate by May. (You're pretty sure he's retaking something, too.)

Within two weeks, you wake to him missing from bed again. That fast becomes the norm.

It's not like he's wasting daylight hours watching movies or going out with friends either. He's just studying, from the moment he gets home from class to whenever he passes out, usually around four in the morning. You have nothing against unusual sleep schedules -- hell, you've had months where you went completely nocturnal -- except he has to be on campus by ten AM most days. Your time with him dwindles close to fucking bupkis.

It doesn't scare you, that is still not an emotion you allow yourself to have, but the longer it goes on, the more... unsettled and restless you are. But it's nothing to do with you, you remind yourself as your gut screams at you to hold onto him with everything you've got. He's not ignoring you.

You try to talk him into having a movie marathon. Just one movie even. He's gotta want to watch Con Air again. He waves you off with an annoyed grunt.

He's just busy.

You haven't gone out on a date in too long, you remind him. You should stop at a bar sometime. Or just a greasy pizza joint. Fine, a fancyass steakhouse, why not? He's gotta be sick of your homemade crap and microwave dinners. He just groans and tells you to fuck off for five minutes for once.

He's stressed from school, that's all.

You settle next to him and wrap your arm around his shoulders, kissing at his neck like you've done so many times before. You miss the taste of his skin, the warmth of his saliva, the pressure of his teeth. He shoves you away. "Not _now_ , dipshit," he says, eyes glued to his laptop.

He's not leaving you, he's not, stop worrying, stop bugging him, fuck fuck fuck, stop demanding attention when shit's _fine_. It's not even about you. What the hell's wrong with you that you're so self-absorbed? It's not like both your brother and your last steady boyfriend left because of your bullshit.

Fuck, he's going to get sick of your shit too.

You stop getting your hopes up even on John's "free" days halfway through the semester. Just because he doesn't have class doesn't mean he's not too absorbed in a textbook to look your way twice.

You catch him stuffing his laptop into his backpack, slinging it over his shoulder. He glances at his phone and pockets it, heading for the door. It's the same routine as every day, except you know he doesn't have any classes for once.

You frown. "Where are you going?"

"Library," he says over his shoulder.

You lean against the wall. "The hell do you need there that you can't pirate here?"

He sighs, pausing with his hand on the doorknob. "Quiet and privacy."

"We can arrange that here."

He turns all the way to face you, jaw clenched. "Dirk, you breathe down my neck all the damn time! I'm sick of having to snap at you just to get a little space for maybe half an hour, okay?"

You take extra care not to change your expression from its usual blank. "Okay," you say flatly.

His mouth twists and he hesitates a moment before pulling the door open. "I'll be back later," he says, voice calmer.

The instant the door's closed behind him, you have the uneasy feeling you're going to do something unfathomably stupid very soon. Just because you know it's coming doesn't mean you can stop it or even recognize it when it happens.

After two hours of trying not to worry, trying to ignore the nagging in the back of your mind that John's not coming back because he's sick of your face, you pull out your phone.

\-- timaeusTestified [TT] began pestering ghostyTrickster [GT] at 16:01 --

TT: You gonna be back soon?   
GT: no.   
TT: Any kinda ETA?   
GT: i don't know.   
TT: Well, are you planning to stay until they close? Can you tell me their hours so I at least know what the latest possibility is?   
TT: It's just kinda considerate to pass on when I should plan on making supper, you know?   
GT: it closes at eight. i probably won't leave before then.   
TT: Are you coming straight home?   
GT: i don't fucking know! i'd rather find somewhere else to study in peace, but i probably won't so i guess i'll be home before nine instead!   
TT: Is there a reason you're being short-fused and evasive right now?   
GT: i'm fucking busy!!!!   
TT: All right. Jesus.   
TT: If you wanted me to fuck off that's all you had to say.   
TT: I can take a goddamn hint.   
GT: BUT YOU'RE STILL PESTERING ME, ASSCRAP.   
TT: I'm done, okay?   
TT: Do your studying thing and try to calm your shit before you hurt an innocent textbook.

\-- timaeusTestified [TT] ceased pestering ghostyTrickster [GT] at 14:52 --

\-- timaeusTestified [TT] began pestering ghostyTrickster [GT] at 16:01 --

TT: Hey, real quick, beef's about to go bad so it's time to use it up. Do you want to do tacos or sloppy joes for supper?   
TT: Figured I should give you first choice since you're stressed out from studying. Pick your poison. Or more preferably, your comfort food.   
TT: I can improvise if you want, pick up some shit at the grocery store and try my hand at lasagna or whatever you're craving. So long as the craving includes ground beef.   
TT: I know that textbook is mighty enticing, John, but I need like twenty seconds of your time here.   
TT: Hey seriously, if you don't answer in the next ten minutes, I'm making ground beef sushi. Don't ask me what that tastes like because I've never even heard of it before let alone cooked it. It'll be a wild fucking ride for both of us.

You try not to pay too much attention to the time, but after nine minutes, you're checking your phone every five seconds in case you didn't hear the vibration. At twelve minutes, you restart your phone to make sure the messages are going through, but there's still no answer from John.

TT: Hey, if you want beef sushi, go for it, but a reply that you're at least alive might be nice by now.   
TT: You didn't get hit by an overzealous taxi driver on the way home, did you?   
TT: Just text me back to let me know you're okay, that's all.   
TT: I'm keeping the news on in case there was a school shooting or something.   
TT: This is Texas and all, so everyone has at least five goddamn guns. They're fucking maniacs. Who the hell needs that many weapons around the house?   
TT: Did you get mugged? Did someone take your phone?   
TT: If I'm talking to a phone thief instead of my boyfriend, I will put a fucking katana up your ass.   
TT: Fuck this, I'm calling you in twenty seconds, so either reply or face the wrath of your ringtone. Which I changed again for you. You're welcome. Hope you like Scissor Sisters.

You hit the Send button as soon as you finish counting to twenty. You don't get even a single ring before John's voicemail picks up, announcing that "John's Gourmet Horseradish Shoppe" is closed for business and to leave a message for special orders. You aren't in the mood to leave an equally assinine joke message before hanging up.

TT: Okay. Beautiful. Your goddamn phone is OFF apparently.   
TT: Dude, you don't even turn it off during class.   
TT: If you dropped it in the toilet or something, it'd be really cool of you to log in on a computer and let me know. Or send an email, or post a Twitter status, just throw me a fucking bone here.

Part of you knows that sending message after message isn't actually helping your case. That thought is buried under panic that you refuse to acknowledge as panic. He's ignoring you, he's dead, he hates you, he's never coming home, he's going to break up with you...

You spend the next five hours periodically -- obsessively -- checking Pesterchum for a reply that never comes. You can't get work done. You can't concentrate long enough to follow a commercial, let alone TV as a whole. You're half-tempted to run to the library and look for him, but the chance he might get home while you're out keeps you rooted.

It's half past eight before you hear the ding of the elevator in the hallway.

You're on your feet to confront John before he can even get the key out of the lock. "Why weren't you answering my messages? Did your battery die?"

He shoots you a glare. "I turned my phone off." He jams his keys into his pocket. "I was studying." He kicks the door shut with enough force that it slams. "I told you that." He dumps his backpack on the ground. "Like I told you to stop fucking messaging me every two minutes."

"It wasn't that often-"

"There were seventy fucking messages from you when I turned it back on!" His cold tone gives way to a shout.

You don't flinch, you refuse to flinch even if your gut sinks as you realize what a dumbass mistake you made. "You weren't answering! What was I supposed to think?"

"That I wanted some fucking breathing room!" He stomps further into the apartment, giving you a wide berth and never turning his back. "What the fuck's even _with_ you lately? I can't get two minutes by myself before you're bitching at my elbow for attention!"

"Maybe I want to spend some goddamn time with my boyfriend!" you say, as if you can actually turn this on him at this point.

"Well maybe I don't want to be fucking smothered for days on end!" he yells with more anger than you've ever heard in him. You can practically see him slipping away as you reach his last straw.

"If I've been smothering you for so long, then why the hell did you put up with me?" you shout, as if it even matters.

"Because I love you, you stupid asshole!"

The retort on the tip of your tongue dies as your mind grinds to a halt.

You have no idea what to say to that. It takes a few seconds before you can even process what that _means_ , because that can't be what he said.

He doesn't give you a chance to formulate a new reply. He snatches his backpack and storms to Dave's old room without another word, closing the door behind him. At least it doesn't slam.

You let your legs give out and you slump onto the futon, holding your head in your hands. You don't know whether to be annoyed that you never got rid of Dave's bed or relieved that John has somewhere to hide that doesn't involve leaving the apartment.

John doesn't come out again for the rest of the evening and for once you have the sense to just leave him the fuck alone.

* * *

You wake to the front door opening, closing, locking. John's gone. At first you think it's for good, until you remember that he has an early morning class. The constriction in your chest only eases when you raise your head and confirm that his shit is still strewn about the apartment and not packed up. You don't know how long you can cling to the hope that it stays that way.

You're sluggish this morning. You skip the coffee and grab a beer, skip cooking and eat cereal straight out of the box. It's kind of a weird combination but you make it work. You're too busy guilting yourself for fucking up with John to guilt yourself for laziness.

You want to text him. Fuck, at this stage, you want to _call_ him, just to make sure you're still all right. That's the exact same stupid thinking that got you into this situation in the first place though.

Desperation overrides common sense and you pull your phone out. You keep some semblance of a grip at least. You only send two words.

TT: I'm sorry.

You log off before you have the chance to send any other messages. Maybe you shouldn't have sent even the one. You delete the Pesterchum app altogether to prevent further fuck-ups.

Today's gonna be another slog of being a completely unproductive waste of space, you can already tell. You should sew a couple smuppets and rework the layout of one of your sites, at least to take your mind off shit if not to ensure your next paycheck, but you can't concentrate on anything other than staring at the ceiling as your mind races over ways John might break up with you.

It hasn't even been ten minutes since you sent John your ill-advised message when you hear his key in the lock. You straighten, not sure whether the suspense comes from hope or fear -- fuck it, you lied, Striders do too get scared.

John slips in quietly, setting his backpack on the floor and closing the door without a word. He doesn't look angry. Or maybe he's just too Done to be upset anymore.

You swallow. "Why aren't you in class?"

He shrugs. "I decided to use one of my free unexcused absences."

"That doesn't explain the why."

"I think I need to take the day off from schoolwork." He wanders to the futon, settling next to you and staring at his knees. "And I didn't want to wait until evening to see you again." He fumbles blindly for your hand, squeezing it when you move into his range.

"I fucked up," you mutter.

"Yeah, you were kind of a douchebag." His grip tightens. "That's okay though."

You study his face. "Is it?"

He tilts his head, mouth twisting into a frown. "Well, it is kind of not okay and I may have to bunk in Dave's room until classes are over if you can't give me some goddamn space." He sighs. "But it also is okay, because that's just you being your usual douchebag self and I love your usual douchebag self when I'm not balls-deep in homework."

You still don't know what to say to that, other than to make sure you actually understand him. "You were serious when you said that last night?"

He snorts. "Uh... yeah, duh." He finally turns towards you, raising an eyebrow. "Why the hell is that a surprise? Isn't 'being in love' and all that mushy crap the whole point of being together?"

Sometimes it really hits you that John's still an innocent as fuck dork beneath all his vulgarity and bluntness. Loneliness, lust, desperation, and boredom never even occurred to him for romantic motivations. He was probably seriously considering you as a life-long partner back when you thought of him as a nothing more than a fling. "That's why you're still here?" you ask quietly.

He smirks. "Yeah. I don't know how you fucking missed this, but I love you, Dirk."

You snatch him up, cup the back of his head, and kiss him deeply. He wraps around you but it's not reassuring enough yet. "You're not leaving?" you whisper, because fuck looking stoic right now; you just need to know.

He laughs. "No, fucknuts. I said I love you."

You kiss him again, roughly, soaking in his warmth for the first time in what feels like too damn long. "Even though I'm a clingy bastard?" you say when you stop for air.

He rolls his eyes. "I love you even though you're a clingy bastard. You also support me and keep me warm at night and have hilariously awful taste in movies."

You hold him close, nuzzling against his shoulder. "You're one to talk," you say, as if you're not also a hypocrite who loves your boyfriend's shit taste in media.

"You gotta say it out loud, douche," he whispers, as if he knows exactly what's going through your mind.

You grunt, nudging your head against his. "The hell for? You already know I'm thinking it, apparently."

He cups the side of your face, pushing you back until he's forced you to be eye-to-shades with him. " _Say_ it."

You feel heat rising to your cheeks and suddenly his demand doesn't seem that awkward compared to the humiliation that he just made you _blush_. You force yourself to at least keep your gaze locked on his. "I love you too," you mumble.

He beams at you and that alone is absolutely worth it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If my wordiness doesn't get out of hand again, the next chapter may be the final one. Eep.


	14. Chapter 14

Commencement is three hours of stupid bullshit.

If you're not 80% certain John would kill you for it, you'd throw something at the guest speaker, who seems unaware he's addressing a room of science undergrads instead of business majors. (You left all the smuppets at home, so you don't have ammunition anyway.) Blah, blah, blah, the future of our country, blah, blah, outdated economic policies, blah, so many careers...

You grit your teeth and bear it because, hey. After half a year of crashing and burning on homework, John's actually graduating. He didn't make honors by a long shot, but he wants to celebrate it all the same, so here you are, bored out of your mind to support your boyfriend.

Mr. Egbert gives you a disapproving glance when he catches you checking email on your phone instead of listening to the university president blather on about more crap that has nothing to do with a biology major. Fucking hell, why do these shindigs insist on assigned seating? John's dad is the only family member who could make it down to Texas, so you get to awkwardly sit with him alone. At least John let you keep your shades this time, now that he isn't so anxious about first impressions.

You pocket your cell when they line up the students to collect their diplomas. In the amount of time it takes for A-D surnames to take the stage, you realize this is going to be a longass wait. 

"Egbert, John" comes up over the loudspeakers, snapping you out of your bored daze as Mr. Egbert claps and John strides onto the stage in his cap and gown.

Fuck it. These ten seconds are the only reason you're here. You cup your hands over your mouth and let out a whoop. John beams towards the audience and you know he heard you. He takes his diploma, shakes hands with the university president, then turns and moonwalks the rest of the way off stage to a murmur of audience chuckling. (That explains why you found the DVD of Moonwalker lying out.)

And that's it, that's the end of the show -- or it may as well be. Everything else is waiting on strangers to walk across one end of the stage to the other as the announcer drones name after name.

In a weak attempt to entertain yourself, you make a list in your head of all the productive things you could be doing instead of sitting through this hot pile of nothing. (Editing a video, paying bills, napping, constructing smuppets, making dinner, cleaning the fridge, masturbating...) It takes the longest hour of your life before they reach the Z names, then the president gives another speech. Just when you think you're off the hook, the school choir steps up.

Oh sweet Jesus, they're singing the school anthem. Someone kill you.

Once everything is finally, mercifully _over_ , you're the first person to escape the auditorium, flashstepping out of your seat. Next comes waiting for the graduates to pile out so you can sort out which one is yours. Mr. Egbert tracks you down again before John comes running out of the crowd towards you.

He leaps into your arms with enough force that Mr. Egbert has to catch his cap so it doesn't fall off. You nuzzle him before he disentangles himself.

You smirk as he smooths out his robes. "Man, you look like a fucking dork."

John blows a raspberry at you. "Says the guy in triangle sunglasses!"

At Mr. Egbert's request, John pulls open the black case they handed him on stage to show off his diploma. It's just a fancyass piece of paper with his name and school on it, but it makes John's eyes light up with pride.

Poor John can't escape the stupid robe and cap until his dad gets his fill of photographs. You're roped into holding the camera sometimes, standing at John's side other times. You can't remember the last time John smiled so widely. Probably winter break.

You escape the crowd finally when you move the celebrations to a classy German pub -- it's a good ten miles away from campus, because fuck the risk of sharing space with the other recent graduates looking for a nearby place to get drunk. You break your "no ordering beer at restaurants" rule this once and clink a glass with the Egberts.

It's passable enough booze, but John takes a short gulp and freezes. He stares at his drink with wide eyes, almost as if he's never had alcohol before.

You nudge him. "You okay, John?"

He turns on you, mouth agape in shock. "Son of a bitch, this is _better_ cold!"

You scowl. "The fuck it is. Just try to tell me that the flavor's as full as the beer I've served you."

"But this tastes better!"

You take another swig. The subtle, deeper flavors are completely drowned out by the cold temperature. "Don't sound so uneducated right after getting your bachelor's."

"It _does_ though, you snob!"

Mr. Egbert raises an eyebrow curiously. "You've never had cold beer before, John?"

"Only the weak shit at campus parties like Bud Lite!" John leans back in his chair and crosses his arms. "Dirk made me drink the good stuff at room temperature."

"That's a slightly pretentious practice, isn't it?" Mr. Egbert says, shooting you a sly smile.

You roll your eyes. "Christ, I do _one_ thing properly instead of ironically..."

"It's not properly," John says, staring at his glass. "My life has been a lie."

You snort. "My trust in your taste is apparently a lie."

He elbows you. "Back at you."

You can tell already that you're going to be leaving half of your booze in the fridge from now on. Whatever. Won't be the worst concession you've made for a roommate. You hide a smile. It's more important that he's staying in Houston with you post-graduation. Fuck the details.

* * *

Just one morning of uninterrupted sleep now that classes are done forever, that's all you goddamn ask for. Instead John's phone lets out a loud beep, because the idiot didn't think to put it on silent and some bigger idiot decided to text him first thing in the morning.

He rolls away from using your chest as a pillow -- dammit, dammit, dammit -- to fumble for his phone from wherever he dropped it on the coffee table.

You crack an eye open. "Who the hell's texting you?"

He yawns, sitting on the edge of the futon as he checks his messages. "Why do you need t'know that?"

"Well, John, 'cos I'm gonna kill them."

John snorts. "You'd kill Dave?"

" _Him_? Twice." You rub at an eye before reaching for your own phone, stowed on the floor, to check the time. Eight thirty-seven. "Jesus, since when did he start getting up this early?"

"Since he started going on digs." John turns his phone so the screen faces you. "Wanna see?"

"What?"

"He sent a picture." He pushes the cell towards you so you can actually see the photo he's loaded.

Dave's taken another one of his ironic selfies, except you're not actually sure it's ironic. He's outside in the bright sun, the background nothing but dirt and a smattering of excavation tools. His usually pale skin has a decent tan to it -- lucky son of a bitch; you tend to just burn -- and he's still wearing the Stiller shades, which look almost appropriate amidst his surroundings. It's subtle, but he looks... happy.

"Dirk," John says quietly as he studies your face.

"Hm?"

"You're smiling."

You drop any emotion you may or may not have been unintentionally projecting onto your face and return to your stoic blank expression. "No, I'm not."

He smirks and scoots closer to you. "You're proud of him."

You shrug. "Why the hell is that a surprise? Kid's got talent. Maybe it didn't come natural, but he kept at it long enough to come into his own and it's already taking him places."

"Does he know you feel that way?" John asks, eyes narrowing.

"Course he knows that." You scowl. "He can put two and two together."

"So you've told him that," he says flatly, staring you straight in the face. "With words. 'Hey, son, I'm proud of you and probably love you' or similar shit. You've said that _out loud_ in Dave's vicinity."

Yeah, you never did that. In retrospect, that was probably a mistake; add it to the fucking list. You groan and settle back against the mattress. No point answering shit he already knows the answer to. "Go back to sleep."

John sighs and flops onto his pillow, staring at the ceiling. You'd catch his hand except he's still gripping his phone and checking it every couple of minutes. You otherwise spend a quiet moment just lying next to each other as he refuses to actually attempt the sleep thing. Not that you haven't been thoroughly knocked out of slumber, but you'd fare better at passing out again if the asshole next to you would cuddle up to you instead of dicking around on the web.

"We should go visit Dave soon," John says, thumb scrolling over something on his screen.

You frown. "What, both of us?"

"Yes, both of us!" He shoves you with a foot. "Fucking duh."

You turn your back to him and jam an arm under your pillow. "The hell makes you think he wants to see me?"

John sighs, tapping at his phone until it lets out another beep to announce an incoming message. "Well, he just okay'd it."

"What?" You look over your shoulder and just catch sight of his screen as he sends another text, the words too small to read. "John, the hell did you just do?"

"Told him we're gonna visit this summer." He nudges your arm. "Order us airline tickets."

Part of you wants to argue -- shit, as if you need more opportunities to fuck up -- except you don't actually want to throw away the chance to see your little bro again. Especially since you're not sure you'll get another chance if John doesn't set it up. "You're a fucking meddler."

He lets out a huff. "Hell no, I'm just concerned and awesome as both a best bro and a boyfriend."

You roll over and wrap an arm around his front, pulling him close. "Yeah, but you're still a little shit."

He chuckles, snuggling in against you. "And you'd be totally fucked without me."

At this point, you can't exactly deny it.

* * *

You drop a small pile of papers on top of John's laptop. He yanks his hands back just in time to dodge the avalanche that lands on his keyboard.

He stares up at you. "Dirk, what the fuck?"

"I did the dirty work for you." You tap a finger against the top page. It's still warm from the printer. "Names, addresses, and dates of every amateur comedy night in the city. You're welcome."

"Amateur com-" He stops, his jaw dropping and his face turning red. "Y-you _remember_ that?"

You cross your arms. "Just because I'm shit at showing I care about crap doesn't mean I don't remember a scaredass sophomore telling me he's more interested in being a dork on stage than studying science."

His eyes widen. "W-well, hang on a damn minute! Shouldn't we see if I can get into grad school first?"

You repress a shudder. Like hell you're going back to watching John be miserable and low on sleep because of a major he's no damn good at. "You seriously want to go back to drowning in homework? Homework that's presumably tougher shit than you're used to?"

"Uh..." His shoulders slump. "Not really, I guess, but a biology degree is kinda fucking useless without a master's to match, isn't it?"

"And a master's is useless if you're not interested in a related career path anyway." You sit next to him. "John, I will fucking feed you for life if you promise not to go back to any sort of goddamn higher ed."

He sighs in defeat. "Yeah, okay, but comedy? I haven't worked on my sketches since... fuck, freshman year, maybe?"

"And what other career plans do you have, exactly?"

"I put my application in at Target?" he says weakly.

You give him a Look.

He cringes. "I don't fucking know."

"Hey, I'm okay with letting a failure mooch off me however long it takes him to get on his feet." You run a hand through his hair. "You gotta at least try though."

He picks up the top sheet, glancing over the information for the event taking place in two days. He groans. "But this is stupid and I'm not ready for it."

"You don't have stage fright, kid. You were an attention-grabbing little ass at your graduation. That's step one scratched off, right there." You wrap an arm around his shoulders. "Step two is finding locales which, hey, guess what your badass boyfriend just did for you?" You pluck the paper from his hand, setting it on top of the others. "Step three is fucking go for it because you've got nothing to lose."

"I could suck! That's something to lose!"

"Nah, it's not a loss when you'll suck regardless."

He scowls. "Well I don't want other people to see my suckitude!"

"If it wouldn't gross you out, I'd show you some of the garbage I put online at the start of my porn career." You smirk. "I can't believe that shit got me where I am now. In case no one's warned you, people have no goddamn taste." You squeeze him. "You'll improve _despite_ them."

He leans against you, still frowning. "You really think I should do this?"

"Why the hell not? Worst case scenario, people don't laugh, you hate the experience, and we find something better for you to do with your time. Best case scenario, you manage a one-in-a-million chance of hitting an untapped niche." You kiss his temple. "Most likely scenario, you get some laughs, some duds, and you'll make note of what to change for next time until the duds are beaten out."

His mouth twists and his brow furrows as he stares down at the dozens of venues you copy-pasted for him. "You'll come with?"

"Hell yeah, I will." You nudge his shoulder. "Anyone tries to heckle you, they'll find a sword up their ass."

He smiles. "Okay, fine. I will try chasing my stupid dreams instead of going to grad school and if they crash and burn I get to blame you."

You nuzzle against his forehead. "That is more than fair."

* * *

There's actually something to be said about the afterglow of a chaste makeout session. It's not the same as the cool-down from the exhilaration that comes with sex, but it's satisfying in a different way. It's just quiet. Safe.

John crawls into your lap and rests his head against your shoulder. You wrap your arms around him and close your eyes, soaking in his warmth and relishing in his little squirms as he adjusts to find the most comfortable spot against you. He settles in a position where you can feel his pulse; the rest of your surroundings melt away as your attention fixes on that steady, gentle reminder that he's here with you.

He breaks the silence after a few minutes, keeping his voice quiet. "Hey, Dirk?" He shifts to glance up at you. "Is it gonna be a problem that we don't consummate after we get married?"

Your mind shorts out. "What."

"Like legally and shit." He burrows against your shoulder. "I read somewhere once that there's a danger of annulment if a married couple never consummates, which is stupid bullshit but we might need to worry about it."

" _What_?" It's a struggle to force out any words beyond that. "Why are we talking about marriage in the first place?"

He shrugs. "Just thinking about the future."

"A future where we get _married_ ," you say, because you can't actually believe you're understanding this correctly.

"Well, yeah, that's a thing we're doing eventually, right?"

Nope, you understood correctly. "Oh my god."

He straightens so he's at eye level with you and frowns. "You didn't want to marry me?"

"John, Texas doesn't even allow two guys to get hitched!"

"Well, not yet, but that's clearly gonna change pretty soon. Probably before we'd get married anyway!" he says far too chipperly.

"Why are we suddenly getting married?"

"It's not sudden, dude, it's like long-term future stuff," he says in exasperation as if _you're_ the one being ridiculous here.

"But since when the fuck was marriage even on the table?"

He cocks his head. "Since we fell in love and moved in together and never plan on breaking up?"

Well, shit. How are you supposed to argue with _that_ and not sound like a giant asshole? "If... we someday bother with the pointless as shit tradition of having a goddamn marriage, then we will fucking _lie_ to anyone who might want to annul it and tell them we fuck like bunnies. All right?"

He wrinkles his nose. "Ew."

"Ew?"

"That's a lot of pretend fucking."

You roll your eyes. "Fine, then we'll tell them we fuck a respectful amount for a married couple, like once or twice a week. Do we do anything kinky in our pretend fucking? Is that something we need to get straight too? In case they have a pop quiz, what's our pretend favorite position?"

He snorts and shoves your shoulder. "Eeeew."

"What?" You squeeze his middle. "Thought you were worried about this."

"It's still gross!" he says, clearly trying not to laugh.

You press your forehead against his, studying his eyes. "John."

He stares back. "Yeah?"

You kiss him softly. "How the hell have we been together three years when we're incompatible as fuck?"

"We love each other anyway and do the compromise thing sometimes." He slides a hand up your face and slips off your shades so he's got a fair view of your eyes. He frowns. "You're happy, right?"

"How the fuck is that even a question?" You nuzzle against him. "I couldn't be happier and you goddamn know it."

"Yeah." He wraps his arms around the back of your neck and grins. "I do know that."

* * *

You hope you're wrong, that your memory's just fucking with you, but you don't think you've ever hugged your little bro before. When Dave picks you and John up from the airport, you decide maybe it's time to make sure you rectify that severe lack of physical affection.

Judging by his startled squawk as you ignore Dave's offered fistbump and instead pull him into your arms, yeah. You definitely never hugged him before now.

As Dave fumbles to return the embrace, John shoots you an amused smile. You can see the "I told you so" in his eyes, but all he says is a fond, "Dumbass."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> With that, I believe we're at the end. I can't completely exclude the possibility of epilogues if inspiration strikes in three months or whenever, but for now I don't have anywhere new to take these two dorks, so I'm giving them some resolution instead.
> 
> ~~(That said, can't deny that I've grown tempted to try writing a Dave-centric sequel/spin-off. Judging by the reaction to chapter ten, there's apparently an unmet demand for more Striders Being a Dysfunctional Family fic and, man, do I love writing dysfunctional Striders. Buuut I don't wanna make promises on that 'cos right now I gotta focus my energies on finishing my multi-chapter species swap project! Pff, priorities. They are such a pain.)~~
> 
> (6/29/15: [And now here's the sequel](http://archiveofourown.org/works/4235427). We're doing this. We're making this happen.)
> 
> I've never had to write an ending for a novella-length story that's so relationship-focused, so wrapping this up was a learning experience. :D Okay, writing the entire thing was a learning experience. Normally my longer work involves a lot more violent-type action, so this story surprised me. It was fun though and I hope it was fun for others too.
> 
> If you'd like to keep up with my work, I'm [turntechGodoka](http://turntechgodoka.tumblr.com) on Tumblr and [NoBrandHero](http://nobrandhero.dreamwidth.org) on Dreamwidth.
> 
> Thanks for reading and stay awesome!


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